


Sainted

by Aster_Writes_Here



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: AU backstory, Alfred is a Blood Saint Au, Canon-Typical Violence, I try to make sense of Bloodborne's lore, M/M, Pre-Canon, happy ending I promise, heres some au with a nice side of alfred/hunter take it, major character death and violence because this is bloodborne, possible canon divergent ending, the chronology is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 79,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aster_Writes_Here/pseuds/Aster_Writes_Here
Summary: Alfred is not a true Executioner.Alfred is not Logarious's Protege.But by the Blood, he will try his hardest to become a true Executioner and a Protege that Logarious will be proud of.Even if his path will destroy everything his Master wanted and himself.He cannot let anything distract him, not even a handsome foreign Hunter.That is the future he desires, then why does everything on this damned night remind him of the past he's tried so hard to rewrite?---An Au written by myself and Senator Wiggles, In which Alfred was not especially truthful about being Logarious’s Protoge. Featuring a male Hunter OC, all your favorite Npcs from before the town went to hell, and all the speculative lore, headcanons, and ocs necessary to write a Soulsborne fic.
Relationships: Alfred/The Hunter (Bloodborne)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 69





	1. Encounter

****

**On the Night Of The Hunt**

_Dear Master, please show me the path. I am but a man, alone without companions, left in the dark without your guidance. I seek to do what is right. Please, show me the way on this holy mission-_  
For the last month, Alfred had kept to the same routine. Every twilight, before the night came and the hunt began, he would kneel and pray before the Shrine to Logarious.  
Though the Shrine was dedicated to his dear master, it did not depict him, as his Master would never allow such vanity. Instead, it was the form of the ideal Executioner, standing tall and resolute against the evils of the world, their head covered by the radiant ardeo.  
Every day, as the sun began to set, he would pray before it, until the moon fully rose.  
He had repeated his verses several times over, and yet the sun still rested upon the horizon, and the only star to shine was the evening Herald. Why was this night different? How many times had he repeated his homemade verse? He dared not pause his prayer, but it seemed that time was not passing as it should.

 _Dear Master, please show me the path, I am but a man, alone without companions-_  
There was a commotion in the streets below. Someone’s hounds bayed as the voice of a hunter cried out. It was far too soon for the hunt to start. The work of eager, blood drunk citizens no doubt. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut tighter.  
 _Bestow upon me the strength of my departed brothers and sisters, may their spirits find peace-_  
Gunshots sounded. Was the holy sanctum of Cathedral Ward now another hunting ground? Perhaps he ought to break prayer early. Surely Master Logarious would forgive him if he cut his prayer short to give aid to-  
“Damnit!” A voice cried out. Profanity so near his Master’s Holy Shrine? Alfred resolved to not let secular matters concern him so.  
Allow me to take on the radiance of my lost comrades, so I may carry out our sacred purpose-  
“The Outsider!”  
“You are not wanted here!”  
“Please, god!”  
 _So I may carry out our sacred purpose-_  
“This town’s finished!” A voice screamed, finally interrupting Alfred’s righteous prayer.  
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes.” Alfred whispered, standing up and carefully dusting off his robes. A man couldn’t even pray in this damned city anymore. He stepped to the edge of the balcony and peered over the crumbling stone railing at the chaos below.  
A trio of hunters-more of a Yharnumite mob of blood drunk citizens then proper Hunters like they should have been- were pursuing a man below. Their clothing hung in disrepair, blood and dirt already spattering their coats. Disgusting, but once he joined the hunt, he would surely end up in a similar state. He made a mental note to bathe in the cleansing waters with the dawn as per usual.  
One of their dogs snarled and lunged. The hound was larger than any hunting dog he’d seen. Alfred leaned forward, baffled. He had seen beastly dogs before, but they never survived the night. Their masters, good hunters, always sadly put them to rest before they could turn into the very creatures they hunted. Why had this dog been allowed to go so long? With it’s ragged coat, slavering jaws and monstrous proportions?  
The answer soon became apparent. The monstrous dogs were not hunting besides men at all. The average Yharnum citizen was never easy on the eyes with their often lopsided features, but these men had warped well past poor breeding. Their hair, matted and filthy, extended past their neck and into the collar of their clothing. Alfred looked down upon them with horrified curiosity. Their limbs extended far past what a human’s limits should have been, and they began to corner the outsider.

The outsider himself was still clearly human. His odd leather clothing, his lack of a long cloak, opting for a brown duster instead, his strange wide brimmed hat-- there was no way someone so obviously foreign could have been in the hunt long enough to contract the scourge. But that didn’t matter to the townsfolk. One of them looked up towards Alfred-- perhaps he had gasped in his horror. Their faces, too, had been distended by the scourge, but in their moment of distraction, the foreigner took his chance as the beast snarled and bared filthy yellow teeth at Alfred.

The hunter, the proper and foreign hunter, brought his axe down upon the nearest of his pursuers. It cleaved through the man-beast beautifully and cleanly, and in the same arc the man drove the axe through one of the hounds. Blood sprayed as the man seemed to desperately dance through their confusion and rage. Foot down. Axe to follow. Lean, spin, upper cut, pull the trigger on his pistol, gouge through the flinching hound’s side.

He had to be a hunter. But with his hat pulled down and his collar pulled high, Alfred couldn’t possibly recognize him, especially as he was not dressed as a Black or White Church Hunter Not that he often fraternized with the church hunters any more. It was still more likely that the foreigner was a church hunter than a stranger caught in the midst of it all. And yet the man hunted alone-- or perhaps his partner had abandoned him already. The Church’s protocol had been Hunters should hunt in pairs-one of the reasons why Alfred had left. Then, what was this man doing by himself?  
Alfred wished to help, but with how the chapel was constructed, by the time he would have retrieved his Kirkhammer and Rifle and excited the chapel, the fight would be over. The man would either be dead, and Alfred would be walking into a pit of beasts, or he would arrive and have done nothing of value. He clutched the railing, anxiously watching.  
There was no time between the man’s desperate attempt to save himself and the last of the mob’s retaliation. He hardly had a moment to breathe before the last huntsman took aim and fired. The hunter flinched back, unintentionally allowing the beastly citizen to strike at him with the butt of his rifle. The citizen surely wasn’t human any longer. Alfred had no doubts. No clear headed human would fire a gun just to beat someone with the butt of it. The strange Hunter collected himself, retaliating with a surprisingly graceful if desperate swing of his axe. The rifleman took aim as the blade came down and pulled on the trigger, firing one last shot, before his head dropped to the concrete, shortly joined by the rest of his body.  
The stranger pulled out a blood vial, noticeably breathing hard. Alfred should have returned to prayer, now that he knew what had happened, and that Good, True Humanity won over Wicked Beasts, but his interest was piqued. Heavens, the Yharnum mob was turning into beasts now? Well, perhaps he ought to finish his prayers and join the hunt, assuming there were any Hunters left that were still human.  
He glanced up at the sky, dismayed to find it still sunset, well, he ought to return to prayer. If he stopped early, something terrible may befall him. Especially on such a strange night.  
Where was he? Perhaps he would make a new verse.  
 _Dear Master, please preserve sense and reason on this night_...No, that was not right…  
 _Dear Master, please guide my hand...No, that’s not right either_ -  
 _Dear Master_ -  
Footsteps. Strange sounding footsteps, with a hollow wooden heel, almost like a dancer. Well, it seemed fate was conspiring to prevent him from his pious activities. He made no move to rise.  
“Anyone here? Well, anyone not fixing to kill me, that is.” A voice called. The clicking footsteps came closer.  
Alfred rose, turning to see his visitor. As expected, it was the stranger from before. Up close, the man was obviously an outsider to Yharnum. His skin was deeply tanned, his cheeks were dusted with freckles. His wide brimmed, curving hat shielded his honeyed eyes from the weak light of the sunset. His accent was strange, not one that Alfred had heard before, but he had never had any need to leave Yharnum.  
The man was splattered with blood. He must have fought through all manner of beasts to reach the chapel, even before his encounter below.  
“Howdy there.” The man grinned at him with a confidence he would not have expected from a man who he saw practically get mauled. He must not have noticed that Alfred had been watching. He tipped his broad brimmed hat.  
“You're a beast hunter aren't you-” Alfred started, only to be interrupted by the stranger. Ah well. Manners were hard to come by, on a night like this.  
“Ah, sort of. Got caught in this whole mess. Was just looking for treatment, and ended up. Well, here.” The stranger shrugged. ‘Who are you?”  
“Oh, beg pardon,” How rude of him, already bombarding the man with words before introducing himself! No wonder he cut him short!  
“You may call me, Alfred. Protege of Master Logarius - Hunter of Vilebloods!” Alfred performed a perfect church bow. Nevermind the fact that an outsider would probably have no idea what the meaning of that was, especially since the man looked confused at the addition of ‘Vilebloods’.  
Oh dear. This really was an Outsider. He’d have to Educate him later.  
“Quincy Morrison.” Quincy made a move to shake his hand, but after glancing at his own gore soaked glove, decided better of it. Alfred could not help but smile at the gesture.  
 _We will both end up bloodsoaked before this night is over. No sense in trying to keep clean._  
“Suppose you can tell I’m not from around here. Hell of a night I’ve been having, and the suns’ not even set yet.” The Hunter, no, Quincy removed a glove, once again offering it to him to shake.  
“Might as well introduce myself proper. I’ve ran into precious few humans tonight.” Alfred accepted his hand, shaking it firmly. Well, Quincy seemed a decently skilled hunter, as well as polite. Hunting alone was dangerous, and he had been alone for quite some time...  
“You seem a competent hunter. Would you perhaps like to cooperate, and discuss what we learn?” Alfred asked. Possibly a bit too forward of him, but after hunting on his own for months, well, he would take anyone who could wield a weapon and shoot a firearm.  
He realized he was still holding on to the man’s hand, and let go quickly. Had he forgotten his manners in isolation?  
Thankfully, Quincy did not seem to mind the intrusion. “Sounds good to me! You look awful strong yourself, and if that handshake was any indication, you have quite the grip.”  
“Terrific! Good hunting!” Alfred clasped the Hunter’s hand again, despite himself. Quincy smiled.  
“To the both of us.” He added, returning the smile. “Good hunting! To the both of us.”  
\--  
Quincy had been a valuable ally. Together, the two men had slaughtered many a fearsome beast, from the gibbering mobs of transformed Yharnumites to towering monstrosities like the creature that stalked the bridge, and the twisted, starving creature in the depths of the scorched and ruined Old Yharnum.  
The Hunter was talented enough to be an Executioner. If their partnership progresses so, perhaps he would let Quincy know his Sacred Mission. Surely the man would understand its importance.  
After such a fruitful partnership, Alfred would be a fool to refuse any further requests for aid. Also, he had found himself in a bit of a pickle by the gates of the Forbidden Forest. The locked gate was proving to be a difficult roadblock on the road to Byrgenwerth.  
Quincy approached, looking sheepish.  
“‘Fraid I’m going to have to ask for your help again.” Quincy said apologetically, holding his hat in his hands.  
“No need to apologize, good Hunter. Hunters work best in pairs.” Alfred gazed out over the forest, silently cursing the Church and their damned secrecy. That damned password still eluded him, but he’d get it right. Eventually.  
All the knowledge hidden in Byrgenwerth…perhaps he would find what he was looking for.  
“Yeah, but it’s no beast this time. The woman at the clinic, she’s not who I thought she was. She’s turning people into monsters.” Quincy replaced his hat and leaned on the railing. He seemed a bit tightly wound, but that was to be expected, on such a strange night.  
“Into beasts?”  
“No, these things are...different. I don’t know what she did to the real Iosefka, but she looks just like her, but she’s not her. Well, she’s sent me packing to the dream a few times. I’d like backup, and time and time again, you’ve proven to be more than competent.”  
“You are quite skilled yourself!” Alfred beamed at the compliment.  
Both men awkwardly averted eye contact for a moment.  
 _Was that too forward? It’s just mere friendliness. That’s all._  
“By the way, if you need to get through the gate, the Password is ‘Fear the Old Blood’.” Quincy said, thankfully breaking the silence.  
“The Byrgenwerth adage?! Every member of the Healing church knows that phrase from initiation!” Alfred frowned sourly. “I tried the most obscure words and phrases!”  
“Did you, now?” Quincy chuckled, a rather pleasant sound.  
“Yes! Ancient church scripture, such as ‘ _Un prae us nos honos Sanguine Sanctum, rem praeses_!’, ‘ _Mater sanguine_ ’, even ‘ _benedicite sol_ ’!” Alfred recited each phrase from the heart.  
“Were they attempting to find refuge in how obvious the phrase is, so that someone like myself would not be able to enter?” He crossed his arms, frustrated.  
“No, I doubt they would have anticipated your level of overthinking.” Quincy said, unable to stop smiling.  
\--  
The sight that greeted the two men when they entered the Clinic was like something out of a nightmare. The moonlight illuminated an eerie scene: Two malformed, blue creatures squatted on the wooden floor, their massive, engorged craniums swaying back and forth. They paid the hunters no mind as they carefully approached. Instinctively, Alfred drew his sword, only for Quincy to grab his arm.  
“Don’t-they aren’t aggressive. They were folks like us not too long ago.”  
“So were the beasts.” Alfred tried to reason. Quincy gripped his arm tighter, his knuckles going white under his gloves.  
“No, these aren’t beasts. They are somethin’ different. Somehow, Iosfeka, or whoever the hell she is, turned ‘em into these things. I think she did the same thing to the real doctor.”  
Reluctantly, Alfred lowered his sword. Quincy let go of his arm, shaking his head. The blue creature gurgled to itself softly, attempting to touch the dust that floated in the window’s moonlit beam.  
“I told that old fool to head to the chapel, but he called me a liar. Now he's some kind of monster.” Quincy sighed. “Well, she’s through this door, up the stairs. Watch out, she’s got some nasty tricks.”  
Alfred suspiciously glanced back at the two creatures before following Quincy. The things seemed to have no idea they were even there, content to stare at their own horrific, elongated fingers and the floorboards.  
Such things shouldn’t exist.  
“She’s up there.” Quincy muttered, as they neared the staircase. “She’s got a threaded cane, and this tentacle thing that can grab ya.”  
“We ought to go slowly, and quietly. With the element of surprise, surely we can overpower her and stop this.” Alfred whispered. Quincy nodded, and took a step towards the stairwell-  
 _Creeeeaaaaaak_  
“Shit.” Quincy hissed, taking a quick step back. Alfred groaned at the loud tapping of Quincy’s boots as he jumped backwards. There goes the element of surprise, lost to a squeaky floorboard and Quincy’s insistence on wearing his strange forigen footwear.  
“Hunter...I was sure you’d leave me well enough alone.” Iosefka called. The woman confidently strode out from the room, and casually leaned on the stairway railing, taking the two men in. Her white Church Hunter attire made her stand out in the dark room, like a wicked ghost. Her smirk made Quincy step back with a shudder.  
“Oh, how lovely, you brought a friend! Healing church as well. Not someone as illustrious as my own Choir, but my my, certainly a surprise. How wonderful. Of course, you can’t possibly be an Executioner. Far too young, and they all died a ages ago.” Iosefka rested her head on her palm, her smiling never fading. “Are you a fanatic, or a scavenger that found their attire? Either way, I am excited to have this chance to work on not one, but two hunters.”  
“Vile wench!” In one fluid motion, Alfred had locked his sword into the head of the Kirkhammer, brandishing the heavy weapon head first at Iosefka. Quincy glanced at him, shocked by the sudden outburst.  
“I am a true Executioner, protege of Master Logarius himself!”  
“Mm.” Iosefka idly studied her nails. “Did you flee the Castle during the siege, or were you left behind, ‘Protege’?”  
Alfred snarled, Quincy staring in shock to see such rage on his usually friendly companion’s features, and charged towards the steps.  
“Alfred, no!” Quincy made to snatch the man’s cape as it streamed past. Catlike, Iosefka reacted, firing her repeating pistol the moment Alfred began to bring down the Kirkhammer. Quincy winced at the perfect parry.  
Surprised at the sudden pain, Alfred flinched. Iosfeka grinned widely, gripping his collar and pulling him close to her, raising her right hand. In the moonlight, it seemed to change. Wicked talons sprouted from gloved fingertips.  
Quincy began to rush to Alfred’s aid, but it seemed as if time had slowed, just like the unnaturally long night.  
Iosefka plunged her twisted hand into Alfred’s chest, splattering blood on his robes and her gloves. Her face was twisted in a mask of inhuman glee as she wrenched her claws out of the man’s chest in a shower of blood, shoving him back down the stairs. Alfred kept his resolve, refusing to cry out from the pain.  
“Ah, what's this? Sainted blood?” She breathed, pupils dilated. She ran her tongue down the bloodied glove obscenely, breathing hard. “Very interesting. I’ll have lots of fun studying your corpse. The chance to work on a Hunter is rare, but a Blood Saint...”  
“You won’t get the chance!” Quincy lept forward, swinging his axe. Iosfeka dodged neatly out of the way, retaliating with a perfect lash of her threaded cane. Quincy fired his revolver, mistiming the shot. Iosefka did not even flinch when the bullet hit her side. She bared her teeth in a deranged smile.  
“Oh, Hunter, don’t you know? The Blood of the Church’s Saints have such lovely effects, and what potent blood this is! I hardly feel pain at all!”  
The gunshot wound on her shoulder was already healing. Quincy did some quick calculations. The fight was suddenly in the fake Iosefka’s favor, but on Quincy’s side, he did hear Alfred unsteadily standing up at the bottom of the stairs. The poor man had fallen the whole way down, after having such a traumatic injury! After the battle, Quincy would certainly share some blood vials, but in the meantime, he took a few steps back, holding his axe in a guarding position.  
Iosefka lashed out with her cane, not even bothering to unsheathe the weapon as it slammed against Quincy’s jaw. Quincy took advantage of her lack of guard and swung.  
The axe hit true, but Iosefka cackled, unbothered by the axe cleaving her side. Quincy’s eyes went wide as he saw the wound healing before his eyes, around the blade of his weapon before he yanked it free.  
“Now this...this is very powerful blood indeed.” Iosefka slowly raised her hand, holding it before Quincy’s face.  
“Would you like to see a glimpse of the Cosmos, Hunter?” She whispered sweetly. “This trick is called...The Augur of Ebrietas.”  
Quincy had no time to respond before a mass of slimy-somethings enveloped him in a flash of blue light. Purple stars exploded behind his eyes as he tried to cry out. He staggered back, trying to escape the clawing, squirming arms.  
“No!” he heard Alfred shout from below.  
The last thing that happened before he felt himself slip back into the Dream was a well timed bullet, and the final swipe of a threaded cane.  
\---  
Retreating back to Cathedral Ward felt wrong after two victories together, but what was there to do? The fake Iosefka had the advantage, and there were more pressing matters at hand. Besides, he would make her pay for this humiliation, perhaps come morning.  
 _If it ever came._  
Quincy stood by the Chapel of Cathedral Ward, looking glum. Despite The Hunter explaining about his connection to “The Dream” and how it would send him back each time he passed in the waking world, Alfred was sure he would never get used to seeing his companion fall, only to rise again somewhere else.  
Strange, how did Alfred get to Cathedral Ward? One moment he had been in the clinic, trying to retaliate for Quincy’s defeat, the next he had been entering the Chapel. The andrenline must have made him lose focus, that’s all. Damn this long night! The unnatural stretching of time was making him lose his wits!  
“Well, she sent us packing.” Quincy grumbled, kicking a pebble. “That was a real nasty trick she pulled.”  
“You said you sent an old man there, but there were two creatures. Who was the other one?” Alfred asked. The scent of incense was overpowering, as they stood close to the safety of Oedon Chapel. There was movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over to see small, white arms sprouting from the ground to grab at the abandoned pebble, pulling it into the ground with them.  
Just a trick of the light, possibly a hallucination from blood loss. Nothing to concern himself about.  
Quincy smiled at Alfred guiltily. “After she sent me back to the dream a few times, I thought I’d hit two bird with one stone. I found a man...feeding on corpses,” Quincy shuddered at the memory. The sound of a pebble hitting stone bricks echoed off the walls.  
“He was obviously a beast waiting to happen, and had the gall to ask for shelter after I saw what he did. So I sent him to her, hoping that at least one problem would be taken care of.”  
“Oh, Dear Hunter!” Alfred exclaimed, covering his mouth in surprise. “How very wicked!”  
“Well, yeah…” Quincy looked down at his boots. “I’m not proud of it. Well, he’s not going to hurt anyone now, at least.” he scratched his short beard nervously. It was a thing more like stubble, unlike Alfed’s own quite Fashionable and very Reasonable Mutton chops, even if they were getting a bit overgrown. Well, all the barbers in town had surely already turned into beasts, and he had lost his scissors, so there was truly nothing for it.  
“Alfred, what did she mean, ‘Sainted Blood’?” Quincy asked.  
Alfred went silent. He should have seen that question coming.  
“You are familiar with Blood Ministration?” He asked, trying to deflect.  
“That’s how I ended up as a ‘hunter’, Pal.” Quincy leaded on the dirty stone wall casually. “That girl Adella is a Blood Saint, does it have something to do with that?”  
“Yes...Yes it does…” Alfred fiddled with the hem of his robe, not meeting Quincy’s gaze. Damn that woman! Everything was going so well! How could she tell, it was so long ago!  
“You alright? It’s not like you to suddenly clam up.” Quincy asked, gently touching his shoulder. Despite himself, Alfred could not help but lean in to the touch.  
“My good Hunter, must we discuss such things? It’s unimportant! What matters, truly, is here and now!” Alfred exclaimed, desperate to escape the line of questioning.  
“Alright, alright. I won’t ask.” Quincy took his hand away, leaving an uncomfortable absence. “I was just curious. Didn’t mean to upset you.”  
“No, no, it is quite alright.” Alfred lied. “It is merely, well, I do not wish to speak of it. Let us continue our partnership, and cleanse these foul streets.”  
“Of course.” Quincy said, unsure.  
Both men looked down, neither speaking.  
A pebble skipped past their boots before two tiny, emaciated arms pulled it back into the earth, a small contented groan sounding. The messenger liked this new game.

\--- _ **Many years ago**_ \---  
 _“That’s a whole family dead, all due to your miscalculation, Vicar.”_  
 _“Not a whole family, the son still lives. We still have a chance for our plan to work.”_  
 _“This was supposed to be a story of a rich family suddenly afflicted with a hideous disease, only to be fully delivered and cured through the intervention of the Church’s Sacred Blood. Now we have only a dying child, and the ire of the people if they find out that we could not save anyone from the dreaded Ashen Blood. Why the hell did you set the poison’s dose so high?”_  
 _“Never mind that, what’s done is done. We will have to lower the dose if we are to do this again. We need the blood to be legitimized.”_  
 _“What about the boy?”_  
 _“Do everything you can to save him. We can still spin this in our favor. Imagine, the orphaned child of a noble household, saved from the scourge! Douse him in blood. Try everything.”_  
 _“If he lives?”_  
 _“The Church gets the family’s holdings, and we have living proof of the Blood’s power-If he lives, that is.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT BEGINS  
> A while back, I read a theory that Alfred might have been a Blood Saint at one point (Has an A name, like the Adella and Ariana, obviously he's not really a proper and real executioner), For some reason, I kept thinking about it, and now here it is. A (planned, I have outlines, notes, and everything, I swear) multichapter fic made with help from my wonderful and talented friend Senator Wiggles! It's amazing what wonderful things can happen when you both love the disaster of a man that is Alfred, Hunter of Vilebloods.  
> Here's some more notes  
> -The 'obscure phrases' are latin lyrics from the OST. Find the praise the Sun joke.  
> -Next chapter will be some pre-canon stuff. Playing around with shaky lore and difficult chronologies, my favorite!  
> -chances are I will fuck up and contradict canon accidentally, instead of intentionally. But this is an Alternate Universe, so hopefully I can be forgiven for that  
> -Alfred's opinions on his muttonchops are his own, I do not condone such a facial hairstyle.  
> -yes my Hunter is a Cowboy who is named after the Cowboy from Dracula.  
> -in case it wasn't clear (my bad!) the weird thing with the pebble at the end is a messenger playing with the pebble. I thought it would be cute, and hint that Alfred might have a connection to the Hunter's dream after all.


	2. Ashen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia is Laurence's chosen successor for Vicar of the Church. After being directed to do so by her Mentor Laurence, Amelia visits a sick boy in the Church's infirmary, and begins to have some doubts about how the Church is running things...

_ Many years ago, before the city had gone to hell, a curious tragedy struck. The Ashen Blood, a malady that ravaged Old Yharnum, had somehow spread to the Sanctum of the Cathedral Ward.  _

_ With surgical precision, a whole family fell ill. A good, wealthy, but foreign family that had come from over the mountains, drawn by the promise of the Healing Blood. _

_ In the night, the dying son was spirited away by Churchmen in white robes… _

The sunlight gleamed off the white stonework of Cathedral Ward. Songbirds chirped and flew overhead, building nests on the roofs of the newly constructed wings of the Cathedral. Crows perched and cawed on the ledges of the stained glass windows of the church, competing with the sound of water rushing from the stone fountain to be heard.

Amelia sat on one of the benches that lined the church’s fountain square, enjoying the sunshine, a heavy leather bound book in hand. The wind gently tousled her intricately braided hair, making her pink hair ribbons flap lazily in the breeze along with her healing church shawl. The sunlight seemed to make her white robes and blonde, nearly white hair glow.

It would be a tragedy to study inside on such a beautiful day, and the illuminated text looked much better when lit by the sun. The Clergy of the healing church bustled about the square, citizens and parishioners strolled, enjoying the rare good weather in the usually damp and cloudy Yharnam. 

As a studious Nun of the Healing Church, Amelia would not let the commotion distract her from her reading. Every member of the Healing Church was to be knowledgeable of all of its aspects, even the ancient history of the city. Reading such a large and obscure text was proving difficult, but Amelia managed by writing summary notes. She reviewed what she had written so far.

_Yharnum was once the ancient city of ‘Pthumeru’, home to the Pthumerians, giants who had found the ‘Eldritch truth’. The city takes its name from the last Pthumerian Queen, Yharnum. These giants had carved out tombs for the old gods under the city, tombs that the healing church has only scratched the surface of._ _It is where we found the healing blood._

__ _ There are still some Plumerians around today, their descendants who lack the eldritch knowledge, like The Church Giants, and that man in the Oedon Chapel, I think. They live a long time, and can go into a state like a torpor if needed, but they look awfully corpse-like afterwards. The text does not say if they recover. How awful!  _

__ __ _ Note: I want to go see the tombs someday, but Vicar Laurence says it is far too dangerous. They say that some Pthumerians are down there in a torpor, and they are not friendly when woken up!  _

Amelia touched her fountain pen to her lips, thinking. She added a few new lines to her notes.

_ I wonder what the Old Blood is? Is it from the entombed Gods? To consume the blood of the Gods...is that right? I suppose humanity really is ascending…! _

“Studying hard, Amelia?” A man's voice startled her from her thoughts. 

“Sir Ludwig!” Amelia smiled, closing her book carefully. She waved her notes about in the air to try to dry the ink. She had forgotten before and had ended up with smudged pages and ruined notes!

Ludwig smiled, giving a short bow. A soldier before becoming a cleric of the church, Ludwig was handsome, but his face was marred with a network of scars from his previous life. Amelia thought of him as more of a knight straight out of a storybook, with his long, tied back hair and morose smile, more suited to shining armor then then white robes of the church.

“What do you have there? More dusty tomes to memorize?” He asked, taking a look at her notes. 

“It’s history, therefore it is very dusty indeed! It is written in old common too! Very many e’s and y’s where they should not be!” 

Ludwig chuckled. “You ought to run along to see the Vicar, now. He wishes to speak with you.”

“Oh!” Amelia quickly brushed off her robes, checking for ink spots. “Did you just see him? What does he wish to say?”

Ludwig’s face turned momentarily grim. He set his square jaw firmly.

“Possible dangers to the Church, and how best to deal with it, that is all. Nothing for you to worry about.” Amelia wondered what on earth that could possibly mean.

“I’m sure he has a more pleasant conversation in mind for you. Or perhaps more dull training to be Vicar someday.” Ludwig’s smile returned, and he patted Amelia’s shoulder.

“It is not dull! It is of the utmost importance!” Amelia argued, crossing her arms over her book and notes with a smile.

“Then hurry along now, and don’t keep him waiting.” Ludwig gave a church bow, Amelia returning the gesture before skipping off, her sudden movement startling the birds.

\---

“Is something wrong, Vicar?” Amelia bowed properly, hands clasped to her front, her white robes rustling loudly in the quiet office.

Vicar Laurence stood before the Study’s window, gazing out on the Cathedral Ward. He turned and smiled at the girl warmly.

The Vicar was tall and gaunt, his sallow skin seeming to glow in the light from the window. Despite his smile, the happiness on his face never seemed to reach his eyes, which remained dour under his heavy brow. Amelia sometimes wondered about the amount of troubles that plagued the Vicar so. They would be hers, someday.

“There is much to think on, my dear. As always. You are succeeding in your studies?”

“Of course, Vicar!” Amelia said cheerfully. 

The Vicar’s eyes flicked down to the book in her hands. 

“Ah, our history. I see that it has not proven too dense?” He asked, approval in his voice.

“I must admit, it’s a bit tricky! It’s in the old hand, and hard to read! So I’ve been taking notes to review and make sure I understand it!” Amelia handed him her notes.

Vicar Laurence skimmed the papers and beamed. “The makings of a true scholar. If Byrgenwerth were still a place of learning, you would have been top of the class.” 

“Thank you kindly!” Amelia curtsied. “What was it you wished to speak about?”

Laurence paused, his face darkening. He sat back at the desk, frowning.

“There has been a terrible tragedy. An entire family in the Ward has succumbed to the ashen blood, leaving behind only the youngest son.”

“Ashen blood? Here?” Amelia gasped, clutching her skirts in horror. “That’s terrible! Vicar, will he live?”

“We are trying everything we can to save his life-Amelia, you are to be Vicar someday. Your duties will be to provide comfort to the sick and ailing. He is a young boy, a few years younger than yourself, I would guess.” Laurence said grimly, taking a seat behind his desk. 

“Will he be catching?” Amelia asked, worried. “I mean, you would not send me if it’s dangerous, of course!”

Laurence smiled. “I would never. At this stage, the ashen blood is not contagious. Do not be frightened by his appearance.”

Amelia shuddered. Ashen blood was a terrifying affliction to behold. Death was a common sight in Yharnum, despite all the Church had done, and she had seen the victims of the Disease. Gaunt, hollow faces, stained grey from the eyes and mouth. It was whispered that the Ashen Blood dyed the sufferer’s blood grey, then their tears and saliva to produce such a ghastly effect. 

“Vicar? What is his name?”

Laurence looked up from his desk, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Ah, I must have not asked for it. You could ask him yourself.”

\---

The Infirmary was an older building, from a time when Cathedral Ward was just another part of the decrepit sprawl outside of old Yharnum. Somehow, this building had survived the demolition to build the Cathedral, and was now functioning as the medical center for the church until better facilities were built. Amelia frowned at the cobwebs in the high ceiling and the dirty windows. The better the new hospital was built, the better.

After being directed, then guided by a rather foul tempered nurse, Amelia soon found herself before a door marked Qurentine. Well, if Vicar laurence said the patient was not contagious, then she trusted him fully. 

“Hello?” Amelia could not see the patient, but she could hear his raspy, irregular breathing as she entered the room. The door squeaked as it shut behind her, and the floorboards creaked under her dress shoes.

“My name is Amelia-The Vicar himself sent me to say hello to you!” 

The room was small and cramped, illuminated by a single dirty window, with a tiny cot in the corner next to an equally miserable nightstand. The patient was nowhere to be seen, but the lump under the sheets was enough of a clue about the boy’s whereabouts.

Here was a conundrum. Amelia could not lift the sheets to properly greet the patient- that would be terribly rude! But simply talking to him through the thin and dreadfully raggedy-cotton blankets was not ideal either. 

How shameful that the Church’s own medical institution gives patients such terrible sheets! She would speak to Laurence about them after this! As for the matter on hand, perhaps he was not able to get enough air under there?

“May I see you? It can’t be good for you under there, especially in a stuffy room.”

Silence. Whoever was under the blanket refused to move. Amelia put her hands on her hips. 

“I can hear you trying to breathe from down the hall, you know. I beg of you, please surface!”

The blankets slowly moved, revealing a boy who looked more like a ghost than a child her own age. Amelia hid her shock, but stepped back involuntarily as he stared at her silently. The tell tale signs of ashen blood were apparent-grey stains trailed from his mouth and down his cheeks like tear tracks. His green eyes were clouded, the whites stained grey. 

Emerging from under the sheets did not seem to do anything to help his breathing, as his ragged breaths were the only sound in the quiet room as Amelia composed herself. 

“Hello. I’m Amelia. What is your name?”

The boy said nothing, only shifting his gaze to stare at the ceiling. Amelia noted his wispy and thin blonde hair-another symptom of the ashen blood, no doubt.

“Are you feeling any better today? Would you like anything?”

The boy looked at her again, then back up at the cracked plaster ceiling, breathing unsteadily through his mouth. Amelia waited patiently, but it seemed he was far too out of it to even acknowledge she was there.

“I shall come back later-once you are feeling better!” She said, turning to leave. A hand grabbed her wrist, surprising her. The boy had sat up in bed to reach her, and was now feebly gripping her hand. He gazed at her, still silent.

“Oh! I will not leave, then.” Amelia was unsure of what to say or do. She took his dimpled hand off her wrist, watching it flop back on the bed weakly. It seemed that he had used all his strength in asking her to stay, as he was breathing harder.

Amelia wished there was a chair, or any place to sit in such a sparse little room! There was only that sad little cot and a lonely bedside table, and she was not going to sit on the bed and take away from what little space the boy had! She wondered if she was his only visitor, with the rest of his family gone. She would bring flowers from the Church’s gardens on her next visit

Once the patient had collected himself, he sat up again, looking intently at Amelia, opening his mouth slightly as if to speak. Amelia smiled. 

“It’s alright, you can talk to me! That’s what I’m here for!”

The patient shook his head. He tried opening his mouth again, only to give up entirely. He slumped on the bed, looking dejected.

“Oh, by the blood-you can’t speak! I’m dreadfully sorry!” Amelia apologized. “Is it because your throat hurts?”

A shallow nod.

“Does it hurt terribly now?”

Another nod.

“I’m sorry!”

Unsure of what to say or do with herself, Amelia stepped towards the window. 

“Do you want the curtains open or closed?”

The boy stared at her. Well, she felt foolish-that was hardly a yes or no question.

“Would you like the curtains closed?” 

Nod nod. 

“Alright-the light must be too much when you are trying to rest.”

She closed the blinds, curling her lip in disgust at the cobwebs and dead bugs on the window. This was no place for anyone to heal!

The boy looked healthier in the dimmed light-possibly as it masked his ghostly pale skin, and disguised the grey stains on his face. He settled in comfortably, giving Amelia a quick smile.

“Is there anything else you would like? Water?” 

A nod. 

Amelia noted the empty bedside table once more-no bell, no way of alerting a nurse for any needs. This was no way to run an Infirmary! Well, when she was in charge, every patient would have a clean room, a cozy bed, nurses on call, and clean windows!

“I will get you some-and I will have a word with the doctors here-keeping you in such a small, filthy room-it’s terrible!”

He only looked at her, puzzled at the sudden outburst. Did the patient not understand that he deserved better than this? How heartbreaking! 

When Amelia returned, cup and pitcher of water and hand, the Patient was asleep, his irregular breathing having evened out. She smiled, placing the water on the table. She was going to have Words with the doctor.

\---

“It is a quarantine room, young miss. We cannot have Doctors going in and out every moment of the day.” The doctor sighed, shuffling his papers. Amelia stood opposite his desk, four feet and eight inches of righteous fury.

“Vicar Laurence himself said the Ashen Blood is not contagious in this stage!” Amelia stated, hands on her hips. The doctor sighed, pushing up his wired spectacles. His crooked nose and sagging left eye were typical of a true Yharnumite. 

“It is a precaution. You were only allowed inside on the Vicar’s blessing-” He started, only to be interrupted.

“And he’s all alone! No way to ask for help, or even leave the room! He got tired just sitting up!”

“Yes, flu-like symptoms are part of the disease, as well as grey particles being secreted from the eyes and mouth, leaving stains.” He droned, continuing with his paperwork.

“Do you even care?” Amelia asked sharply, folding her arms. 

“Yes. I do care. Like I care about my many, many other patients. Besides, he won’t be in my hands much longer. The Choir is taking over the case, and moving the boy to the upper Cathedral ward.”

“The Choir? It’s that bad?” Amelia asked, her brown eyes wide with shock. While Vicar Laurence was training her to be the next Vicar, The Choir was still a mystery to Amelia. She knew they worked in trying to elevate and evolve mankind, and that they were rumored to hold audience with one of the Old Gods. Whenever the Vicar met with them, he never took her along. If the Choir was taking an interest, the poor boy must be in really bad shape!

“Yes. It is that bad. The fact he is able to sit up at all is a miracle in itself. Now I have the Choir breathing down my neck, and when they get involved, the freaks from Mensis are soon to follow.” The doctor muttered sourly. “If it was not for the Vicar’s interest, we would have written him off as a lost cause. He’s had his brain practically boiled by fevers along with the ravages of the disease. The boy probably won’t even recognize the face of his own mother-if he heals. That’s a damn slim chance”

“That’s horrible!” Amelia cried. “You can’t just give up on him like that!”

“Young Miss.” The man stood up at his desk, furrowing his busy brows over his mismatched eyes.

“You are Vicar Laurence’s favorite, despite the fact you are accursed with the features of an Outsider, but I have other patients to attend to. Run along now, don’t you have scripture to memorize, or other sick little Outsider boys to worry over?”

Amelia scowled. 

“At least tell me his name!”

“The Church Hunters who brought him in gave us no information beyond that he is an orphan, terribly afflicted, and to be saved at any cost, Vicar’s orders. If you wish to give him a name, call him John Doe. Infact, call him anything. Just get out of my office.” The doctor shooed her out, and slammed the wooden door shut.

“What a wicked man!” Amelia huffed. 

\---

“Honestly, it is a state down there, Vicar!” Amelia fumed, pacing the Vicar’s office.

“It is the state of things, I am afraid. The Church only has so many resources expend, as we only have so many faithful giving to the church. I am working to remedy that.” The Vicar finished writing, putting his quill pen down. “We recently acquired a large amount of funds. I will see that a portion goes to our Infirmary. If the Ashen Blood continues to spread like this, we need to improve our healing capacities.”

Amelia sighed, flopping herself down on a chair. 

“Vicar, I’m afraid I was not much help to the patient. All I could do was bring him some water and close his curtains. I couldn’t even make the doctor listen to me!”

“Nonsense.” The Vicar sealed the envelope and set it aside. “You helped just by bringing your usual cheer and kindness. You brightened his day as surely as you brighten mine.” 

“Thank you Vicar!” Amelia cheered. “I just wish I knew his name. The Doctor did not know either!”

“I’m certain once he is able to speak again, he will tell you. And if not, well, the Church can grant him a new name, just as it did for you upon your Baptism.” Vicar Laurence took out a heavy ledger and began to skim it with concentration.

“But that was only because of my being a Blood Saint.” Amelia frowned. “I was given a new name to let go of my past and to dedicate myself fully to the Church. Every Blood Saint is supposed to.”

“I feel that our patient may also want to let go of his past. Whether he wishes to dedicate himself to the church or not is up to him. I will give you permission to see him in the Choir’s care.”

“Thank you!” Amelia said, bowing. Laurence smiled at her. 

“You ought to spend more time with children your own age. Just...do not let it cut into your studying, yes?”

“Yes sir!”

Amelia scurried off. Laurence went back to work, shaking his head fondly. After proper training, and the maturity that came with age, Amelia would make a caring Vicar. Once that would make up for all his missteps and mistakes. 

He sighed, looking over a recent entry in the ledger. A family had ‘donated’ their entire home and fortune a week before. His grave mistake had aided the church, but at what cost? He put his head in his hands.

He was on the right path. That was merely a miscalculation, and the end result would be the ascension of mankind, gifted with sacred blood. 

\---

Amelia paused at the Chapel of Oedon, frowning as she looked upwards at the higher levels of Cathedral Ward. This was her first time ascending to such heights-if only the Vicar would come with her! She rarely saw him leave his office other than to give sermons and attend communion. Something was eating away at the man, she was sure of it! If only she knew what it was...

It had taken a few days for the Choir to allow her to come, and she hoped that the Patient-should she call him John Doe, like the mean Doctor said? Just calling him patient or boy seemed so dehumanizing, but John seemed to fit him even worse. She set her face, determined, and entered the Chapel. 

“Oh! Hello miss!” The Chapel Dweller turned his head at the sound of her entering, and waved a long fingered hand at her, smiling nervously. Grey skinned and gaunt, the Dweller seemed to be as much a fixture of the Chapel as the incense burners or candles. Despite his corpse-like appearance, he was a gentle soul. 

“Hello sir!” Amelia replied warmly. 

“Do I smell flowers? It’s hard to tell. They burn a much stronger incense these days, and my eyes are just getting worse.”

“Indeed, they are! You ought to try some Blood ministry, it might help your eyes.” Amelia walked over, holding out one of the Daisies she had plucked. The Dweller took it gratefully.

“Oh no, sorry. None for me. I’m the old fashioned type, Miss. ‘Sides, I don’t think I could afford it. I’m happy enough, livin’ on the Church’s hospitality towards a poor ol’ Pthumerian. Thank you kindly for the flower.” 

“Well, have a wonderful day, sir! I’m off to the Upper Ward!”

“Good bye miss, and careful, those steps get a bit slick after the rain.” He called as Amelia started the elevator. 

The Dweller smiled, sniffing the daisy. 

“Much better then the incense. I ought to get out more.”

\---

“Oh, my! This must be Miss Amelia.” A Choir member bowed, smiling at her as she left the staircase. The narrow bridge above the city was at a dizzying height, embraced by the massive gnarled trees that grew on either side of it. Amelia could see nothing but branches and the rooftops all around and below.

“Are you here to see the little John Doe? It’s a very interesting case, indeed!” Her grin grew wider under her blindfold cap.

Amelia drew back nervously, clutching the daisies to her chest. She wished that the Vicar had come with her. She usually was not so shy, but something about this woman was ringing alarm bells.

“Come now, dear. I won’t hurt you. It’s a great honor to meet the Vicar’s chosen successor.”

“Likewise.” Amelia said, smiling faintly.

“Oh, flowers! How wonderful. I will get you a nice vase. Poor boy doesn’t get any visitors. Of course, we usually don’t take patients, let alone let people visit, but it was Vicar’s orders. Learning to counteract poisoning would be a boon to all of mankind.”

“Poisoning?” Amelia asked, confused. They entered through the main gate. More Choir scholars appeared, speaking to each other in hushed voices, all wearing the same intricate white robes and blindfolded caps. Amelia wondered how they could see. None paid her any mind.

“Pardon me, illness. Well, we cannot refuse the Vicar, it’s thanks to him and Master Wilhelm that we are on this blessed path towards the cosmos.”

“Oh! Yes-is it true you commune with The Great Ones?” Amelia’s curiosity was outweighing her nervousness. Her chaperone gave a mysterious smile.

“You will know all about that someday, Miss Vicar-to-be.”

\--- 

“Alright, I will bring you a vase. Have a nice chat!” The Choir woman said, closing the door behind her.

The patient sat up once Amelia entered the room, giving her a weak smile. Some color had returned to his cherubic cheeks, and the grey stains had faded somewhat, making him look more tired and careworn then someone headed for the grave. His green eyes brightened when he saw the flowers in Amelia’s arms.

“Well, it’s a lot cleaner in here.” Amelia said, setting the daisies down on the wood nightstand beside the bed. It was still rather rickety looking, but the sheets looked clean and he seemed more comfortable. A window by the bed was cracked open, letting fresh air circulate the room.

“Do you feel any better?”

An enthusiastic nod.

“Can you speak yet?”

A slow head shake and a sad sigh. The boy rolled on his side, looking dramatically miserable.

“Don’t be discouraged! You’ll feel better in no time! The Choir knows their stuff!” Amelia encouraged, pulling up a chair. She opened her satchel, to bring out a book. The boy sat back up, interested.

“Would you like me to read to you? I need to study history and such- but this one’s an easier read than my usual fare. It’s a collection of old stories .” She ran a hand over its embellished cover-a noble knight riding a horse rode across the cover, backlit by a massive golden sun.

“It’s called ‘The Knight that Shined’!” She said, holding up the book. It gleamed in the sunlight. Amelia opened the book to reveal a page of illuminated illustrations of knights, dragons, and castles. The boy sat up, interested.

“Isn’t it beautiful? These are stories from Lordra, the land across the sea. They say old Gods lived there, once, but that’s just legends. The only Gods are the Great Ones. Perhaps they were just very powerful beings, if they existed.” Amelia explained, turning the page. 

Amelia began to weave a tale of magic, ‘Not something that exists, unless it was a gift from the cosmos, of course’, heroes and old gods, centering around a pure and heroic Knight that traveled the land, helping all those who were in need.

The boy listened raptly, drinking in the story and the beautiful illustrations. Amelia smiled as she read. It was wonderful to have such an attentive listener!

“When the whole land was plunged into darkness when the old sun burned out, the Knight knew just what to do. He shined so brightly, that he himself became the sun in the sky, so he could forever bring warmth and light to all that see him.” Amelia closed the book gently. The patient smiled at the ending and clapped feebly.

“Well, you need to rest, and I have studies to attend to-” Amelia rose from the seat and turned towards the door. “Strange, that lady never came back with the vase.”

“Don’t go.” A soft voice rasped behind her.

“You can talk now!” Amelia exclaimed as she whirled around joyfully. “Please, tell me your name then!

The boy slumped back on the bed, avoiding her gaze, his voice hardly more than a whisper. 

“I...can’t remember it.”

“Oh.” Amelia frowned. “Do you have amnesia? How much did you forget?”

The boy stared at her in shocked silence as Amelia realized how foolish that sounded.

“I mean, er, what do you recall?” She asked,returning to her seat. He coughed softly and swallowed hard, reminding Amelia of how taxing just two sentences had been. 

“Not a lot, huh?” She asked, trying to lighten his verbal load. He nodded sadly, drawing his knees to his chest to curl up.

The cruel doctor’s words echoed in her mind. ‘ _ He’s had his brain practically boiled by fevers along with the ravages of the disease. The boy probably won’t even recognize the face of his own mother-if he heals. _ ’ 

Sadly, having no memories might be for the best, but Amelia was not going to break the news about what happened to his family, she thought, as he shyly looked away from her again, gazing out the window. A crow perched on the sill briefly, before taking off again. 

“I hate it here.” He whispered, watching the bird take off. Amelia looked at him in shock.

“The doctors are doing all they can to help you! They care, not like the infirmary.”

The Patient sunk down in the sheets. Amelia wondered if he was going to bury himself in them again, like during their first meeting. They both remained silent for a few minutes. Birds swooped past the window, casting shadows on the floor and walls.

“They don’t talk to me.” He rasped. He looked back at Amelia, his green eyes murky. In the light, Amelia could fully see what the Ashen blood had done to him. Although the grey stains and tear trails were fading, the marks stood out clearly on his anemic pallor. His eyes were sunken above puffy eyebags, framed by limp, wispy hair. Despite still having a youthful, full face, there was an air of hollowness about him. 

“I’m sorry…” Amelia said softly, looking down. For some reason, she was having trouble meeting his gaze. “I will tell the Vicar-and I promise, I’ll visit you everyday!”

When Amelia looked up, the boy had retreated under the blankets once more, giving only silence in response. She stood up, picking up the book, before pausing. 

“Do you want me to leave the book?”

“...Yes.” Came a soft, muffled voice.

“Alright! It’s on the table! I’m going now! See you tomorrow!” Amelia walked towards the door, pausing to listen for a moment. She looked expectantly at the lump under the sheets.

“...Good bye.”

Amelia smiled. How wonderful that he could speak a little now! The next step was to ask those doctors to have a better bedside manner! Certainly the Vicar would help!

\---

Amelia ran to Laurence’s office, pausing to see if his door was open before coming in. An open door meant that Laurence was available to be spoken with, and a closed door meant he was not to be bothered.

To her delight, it was ajar.

“Vicar Laurence! Vicar Laurence-” Amelia burst through Laurence's office into the study, beaming with delight. Laurence looked up from his desk, surprised. 

“The patient is doing so much better! He spoke today! When I was reading-” Amelia stopped, startled as an unfamiliar man rose from the chair by Vicar Laurence’s desk. 

He was impressively bearded and thin, seeming to unfold more than rise from his seat until he loomed over Amelia and the Vicar, his head seeming to scrape the ceiling. Amelia stepped back instinctively, like a mouse caught in a hawk’s shadow. There was no sound other than the rustle of his golden robes, and the distant chirps of the birds outside.

“Who might this be?” The giant finally spoke, pointing a gaunt finger at Amelia. His voice was eerily deep to emerge from such a narrow frame.

“Logarius! You are scaring her!” The Vicar stood at his desk, staring Logarius down in a rare show of anger. The two men held gazes for a tense moment before Logarious sat down again, somehow able to fold his long body into a human sized seat. 

“I’m sorry! I did not know you were having a meeting-I saw the door was ajar and I thought-” Amelia started, before Laurence waved a hand. 

“No matter. It must have not been fully shut. Amelia, this is Master Logarious, founder and leader of the Executioner Sect. Logarius, this is Amelia, my successor.”

“Your protege.” Logarious said, staring at Amelia. His eyes were an icy blue under impressive brows. Amelia felt like she was being studied.

“Pardon me, sir, are you a Pthumerian?” Amelia asked. A smile spread across Logarious’s thin lips, only to vanish just as quickly. 

“Very astute indeed.” He said. Amelia realized that he had not blinked once during the whole encounter.

“Vicar...what is the purpose of the Executioners?” Amelia squirmed, wishing to leave, but her curiosity was piqued. The Vicar made to speak, only to be interrupted by Logarious.

“Our glorious purpose is to completely eradicate the Vilebloods, the foul sons and daughter of Cainhurst.” His blue eyes glittered murderously under his thick eyebrows. “Their Blood is that of corruption, the Antithesis to our own Good Blood. They must be wiped out fully, lest their corruption spread. A mission that cannot be accomplished without our own source of the Old Blood.”

“Blood Saints, as I have said time and time again, are in short supply, Logarious.” Laurence’s words were icy. “They are needed for communion, to heal the sick. Your band is not in need of healing blood at the moment.”

“I plan to besiege the center of evil itself, Vicar.” Logarious growled. “I will not take my Executioners into the maw of hell unprepared.”

“I will take my leave then!” Amelia piped up, deeply uncomfortable. She would come back later, perhaps study, or return to John Doe’s side, or-

“No, no-I believe it was Logarious that was leaving.” The Vicar said, a steely edge to his words. “Whilst I take time to consider his request.”

“Very well.” Logarious bowed shallowly. “Consider hard, Vicar. Do you wish for this evil, this heresy to continue unchecked? Then grant us a source of blood.” He strod out, golden robes billowing dramatically-an effect only somewhat ruined by the man needing to duck to exit through the doorway.

With the Pthumerian gone, the atmosphere in the office instantly felt lighter. Vicar Laurence let out a tired sigh, running a hand through his thinning hair. 

“I am sorry you had to see that, Amelia. Logarius, the Executioners-they are a necessary evil. The blood they minister there is corrupt. We have had reports of monstrous creatures roaming the countryside, wicked flea-like beasts attacking innocent folk for their blood. Ludwig has been trying to drum up a force, but the populace thinks they are too far to harm us in the city.”

“He seemed very fanatic!” Amelia said, shuddering. Ludwig nodded. 

“Logarius is a fanatic, my dear, and he has hated Cainhurst for far longer than they have misused the holy blood. His men revere him as a Saint. Thankfully, his and their fantatism is on our side.”

“Does he hate them for their misuse of blood? Then why would he hate them before the blood was found?” Amelia asked. She wrecked her brain to remember her history-Cainhurst was a family of nobles that ruled in the lands beyond Hemwick Hamlet. They had always been at odds with Yharnum, but thankfully, there had never been any wars.

“Probably an old grudge, from before our time. Pthumerians have long lives, and even longer memories. But the Cainhurst heresy must be stopped. The Church depends on it.” Vicar Laurence said firmly. “Thus, we must continue to support and overlook Logarius and his little band of Executioners. Even if they require a Blood Saint, like yourself.”

Amelia bowed her head. 

“I’m not old enough to give blood yet, Vicar.”

“I know. You are still growing, and to take blood would be far too dangerous for your health. But your blood was found to be curative.” 

“I certainly hope I am still growing! I am far too short!” Amelia sighed. “No one will take me seriously as a Vicar if I cannot look over the pulpit!”

Laurence chuckled. “We shall get you a box, then. They shall take you seriously, Amelia. You know the scripture well. With your blood, you will provide Communion, and with your words, guidance.” 

“Seek the Old Blood.” Amelia recited, smiling at the Vicar. He smiled back.

“Seek the Old Blood.”

A voice nagged in the back of her head. How was the church able to afford to keep a band of executioners whist leaving their healing facilities to molder and decay? 

Amelia silenced those thoughts. She did not understand yet. Someday, she would.

\---Present Day---

Opening the gate to the Forbidden Forest had only provided more questions than answers. The sight of a mummified corpse greeted the two men as they entered the guard tower, still clad in his mouldering guard uniform.

“Poor bastard behind the door’s already dead.” Quincy muttered, stepping forward cautiously. The scent of mold and age was overpowering, and their footsteps were enough to disturb the dust and cobwebs on the ceiling, causing a disgusting rain of particles on both men.

“By the state of decay…” Alfred shuddered, trying to brush off some of the dirt of, what seemed to be, centuries. There was no way a man could go from speaking to a shriveled mummy within a few hours-and yet, the evidence lay before them, staring with empty sockets. 

“Times gone all wrong, Partner.” Quincy shrugged, stepping out of the miserable tower. An equally eerie forest lay ahead, the torches of the transformed Hunters visible in the distance. Well, there was no turning back now. He had faced worse than a few blood drunk hunters and beasts. Quincy paused, turning to Alfred with a smile.

“Before we head out to Byrgenwerth, I have something for you.” Quincy took Alfred’s hand, pressing something into it. When he opened his fist, a shining golden medallion was revealed. It glittered gold, old, worn, and scratched, but someone-Quincy, probably, had polished it back to a gleam.

“It’s beautiful-what is it?” Alfred asked, tilting it this way and that. Though time had nearly erased it, the engraven face of the sun was still visible on it, glinting in the moonlight that streamed through the trees. He ran his gloved thumb over the groves, wondering how long ago it had been made. 

“It’s an old treasure from my homeland. We find these around the ranch sometimes, buried in the dirt. Some treasure from old times. It’s not actually gold, but no one can seem to find out what kinda metal it is. There’s an old tradition of giving them to people that help you out.” Quincy smiled, shyly adjusting his hat. 

“You’ve been helping me out an awful lot, ‘n I felt bad about what happened in the clinic-so I want you to have it.” Quincy said, smiling up at him. Alfred wondered why his heart had begun to beat faster.

Alfred reached under his shawl, touching the Wheel Hunter badge that hung around his neck, trying to soothe his pounding chest. Was now the time to give Quincy one of the last badges, in return for such a kind gift? No. Later. Later, he would give Quincy one of his greatest treasures. 

Looking at the medallion reminded him of the old story Amelia had told him in that miserable ward, so long ago. Alfred wondered what happened to her. She had achieved her dream, becoming Vicar, but he had not seen her since he was a child. Was she safe in Cathedral Ward? Did she remember him at all? Something must have gone horribly wrong if she stopped making public appearances not too long after the Beast Plague began to reach such a horrible point.  


“You alright, pal?” Quincy asked, snapping him back to the present.

“Pardon me for getting lost in thought!” Alfred bowed, tucking the Medallion safely in a pocket. “I thank you deeply.” Making alterations to The Sacred Uniform had not come without fierce internal debate, but additions such as pockets were necessary for such treasures as Quincy's gift.  


Quincy nodded with a grin, setting out on the forest path. “Alright, back on the trail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, the first flashback chapter! Hooray! Only slightly delayed by needing to do research (So. Much. Hidden. Lore.) and well, playing the actual source game. I forgot that upper cathedral ward has those big trees. Also I finally finished Alfred's quest in game, fought him on the steps to the Queen's throne room, and we mutually killed each other. It was awful.  
> Did you know Annalise doesn't even mention what happened if you revive her? I guess getting pulped by a cone wearing wheel wielding manic is no big deal for Annalise, Queen of The Vilebloods.  
> So, yeah. Enjoy the healing Church back in it's heyday, back when Laurence had reservations about poisoning a family versus poisoning a whole town (See the comics...or don't I just read the plot on the wiki) to get them hooked on the blood, torching old Yharnum, and just generally being kind of evil. And whatever he does in the old Hunters dlc. I haven't bought it yet. Oops.  
> Writing happy, cheerful kid Amelia was fun, but heartbreaking knowing she's eventually going to be holed up the the Cathedral, praying to try to keep the Beastly scourge away before turning into a monster herself :(   
> Ironically, Kid Alfred can't speak too much, while as an adult he can't stop talking. He's making up for lost time, I guess.  
> Enjoy my Pthmerian Speculation, despite refusing to do Dungeons. FUCK Chalice Dungeons. Too confusing. Why did they make Dungeons when so much content got cut? Anyway so, Pre-popsicle Logarius just looks like a really tall old dude before going into frozen torpor. He's intense.   
> There will be NO Alfredgarius in this fic because with the ages, uh, super yikes. Even if Alfred was a adult, the power imbalance...also yikes.  
> Anyway, uh. Chapter 3 should be coming up...in a bit.  
> \---  
> Notes and anticipated questions:  
> Why doesn't kid Alfred have a name?   
> Because all the Blood Saints have fancy A names and that would only work if he got a new name (it's okay it's an AU!...or is it). The amnesia also works into his character because it's obvious he doesn't/never had a life outside of the Church/Executioners. Also this way I don't have to give him a last name, because no one in Soulsborne has last names, what the hell.   
> Why does Quincy have a Sunlight medal?   
> Because I have to work in Dark Souls references in or I Will Die. Also there's hints to where Quincy is actually from in this chapter.  
> Why did you write Ludwig without playing the Old Hunters?  
> I'm an idiot, next question.


	3. Sainting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in cathedral Ward starts to change as the news of distant beasts means there is need to assemble a force of hunters. Amelia continues to visit her ill friend daily as he slowly heals and recovers from his disease, his personally slowly coming out as he trusts her more and more.  
> A revelation one day changes everything.   
> \---  
> Warning for some light medical horror and the Choir and Church being awful

The last few weeks had settled into a regular rhythm for Amelia. She would study the old works of Byrgenwerth, attend all of Vicar Laurence’s church services, and be tutored by the Vicar one on one for writing sermons, giving communion, and for the history of The Church. 

Despite service to the Church being her passion, her favorite part of each day was visiting the John Doe. It turned out he was a passionate reader himself, pouring over her history notes and helping her study. 

He was recovering well. No longer facing difficulties in speaking, the only barrier between them conversing was his surprising shyness. Even after happily reading together for a while, he would still retreat under the sheets, seemingly exhausted by even a small bit of interaction. Amelia understood. The isolation and trauma was no doubt wearing on the poor boy.

He never wished to talk about the treatments he was receiving to cure his illness, and Amelia knew not to press the issue. Their conversations mostly stayed in discussing the books she would bring to his small room. Despite having read through many other tombs, ‘The Knight That Shined’ remained his favorite.

As the days progressed, he slowly opened up to Amelia, soon talking more then she did during their visits. He must be dreadfully lonely up there. The Choir had an orphanage, but they were so strange and secretive with it that she doubted any of the children would be allowed to play with her friend. 

The end of the happy rhythm began on one stormy summer day.

“Sir Ludwig?” Amelia exclaimed. The man turned from directing builders on the steps to the Upper Ward. Men with boards, hammers, and saws milled about the usually tranquil steps inside the old stone tower, left over from before Cathedral Ward had been built.

“Oh! Amelia! Fancy seeing you here.” Ludwig bowed. “The Vicar gave me permission to start building a workshop near the steps to the Upper Cathedral.”

“A workshop?” Amelia adjusted her bag. The thing was full of heavy books, and starting to cut into her shoulder. “For what?”

“The monsters that have been appearing in the countryside are increasing in numbers. Laurence-The Vicar, I mean, agrees that we ought to build a force to do something about it. So, I took a page from Logarius-,” Ludwig wrinkled his nose in distaste. Amelia giggled.

“So, I decided to build our own workshop to make hunting tools and such. Train recruits and all that. It really brings me back to my old soldier days. Old Ghernams’ been doing most of the directing. He’s a strange old bird, but he’s been fighting the beasts near Hemwick before the Church knew about what was happening.”

“The monsters are getting that bad? Where could they be coming from?” Amelia asked. The Vicar had mentioned beasts, and she had read tales-often with the John Doe-of monsters that lurked in faraway lands, like demons, dragons and such. She was pretty sure that those were just stories, however, but if Ludwig said such things existed, she would not doubt him. She wondered who this Gherman was. 

“They have been growing in numbers. They are...hideous things.” Ludwig shuddered. “Men and women, turned into bloated, licking fleas by some dark magic. Ghernam reported even worse beasts out in the woods.”

“But..magic does not exist!” Amelia said. If Ludwig was shaken by such things, they must truly be awful.

A smile spread across Ludwig’s scarred face.

“Magic does exist, Miss. I’ll show you.” Ludwig walked to a worktable, beckoning Amelia over. He picked up an object wrapped in strips of leather. 

“Few people have had a good look at this blade up close. It is the dearest thing to me, next to yourself and Laurence.” Ludwig slowly unwrapped it, slowly revealing a shining silver blade. Amelia gasped in wonder.

“In my darkest moment, I found it in the depths of Chalice Dungeons.” He ran his fingers down the flat of the sword, smiling. “I was a mere soldier before, but after finding this sword…” 

Before Amelia’s very eyes, the blade transformed, going from a mundane, if beautifully wrought sword, to an object of ethereal wonder. It glowed a brilliant blue, increasing in length and width. The very cosmos seemed to swirl within the blade, stars and nebula danced within its depths.

“It speaks to me, guides me. I know I will never become lost, that I shall always remain resolute, as long as it remains by my side.” Ludwig held the blade up, obscuring the right side of his face. “That, dear Amelia, is true magic.” 

“It truly is!” Amelia exclaimed as the blade faded back to normal. Ludwig chuckled, gently re-wrapping it in leather.

“Now, what is your reason for coming up here, lass?”

“Oh!” Amelia had totally lost track of what she was doing! “I was supposed to see someone in Upper Cathedral Ward!”

“You ought to get going!” Ludwig said, stifling a laugh. “Don’t keep them waiting!” 

Amelia waved and rushed off. She could not wait to tell her friend about what she just saw!

\---

“And it shone and flickered! It was like a moonbeam full of stars.” Amelia said, spreading out her arms. “And it was this big!”

“Wow.” The boy rasped, smiling. He was sitting cross legged on the bed, having become strong enough to not need the support of a wall or pillow, but he still tired easily. “Just like a Knight?”

“Exactly like a Knight!” Amelia agreed, sitting on the bed. Both children jumped when fat raindrops began to patter against the window pane. 

“Ugh. I’m going to have to walk back out in that.” Amelia sighed dramatically. Thunder rolled distantly. Amelia began to fumble in her bag for a candle to light, as the clouds outside had obscured the natural light the room usually relied on.

She looked up to see the patient make his wobbly, unsure way to the window, and slowly lift up the pane a crack, sticking his hand out to the rain. 

“What are you doing?” She asked, surprised. 

“I want to feel it.” He winced. “It’s chilly.” Despite this, he did not move.

“You might catch a cold!”

“I can’t get much worse.” Rain blew in through the crack, letting the droplets splatter on the wooden floor. The boy closed his eyes, smiling.

“Feels like I’m outside.”

Amelia frowned as she lit the candle, placing it in the holder on the table. For some reason, the Choir had not upgraded to gas yet.

“Don’t you remember feeling rain before?”

“No, but I can hardly remember everything I’ve forgot.” He said, smiling. Amelia smiled back. Humor was a good sign.

“You can still remember how to talk. And read!” Heavens, had he ever. Amelia brought him a new book each time she visited.

“Will the Choir be cross about a wet floor?” She asked, worried.

“Who cares? They don’t let me outside, so they can take a little rain on the floor. After you asked them to be nicer all they say is ‘Good morning, John.’ or whatever time it is.” The boy huffed, putting his other hand out to feel the rain. “Whatever my name is, it sure isn’t John! When I tell them that, they say I’m fresh! Can you believe that?”

Well, he has certainly gotten a bit more talkative, Amelia thought as he went on his whispered rant. He frowned, worried. 

“I’m not fresh, am I? I’m not quite sure what that would even mean.”

“Of course not!” Amelia said, trying to reassure him. The candle flickered as a gust of wind blew through the window.

“I can’t help but wonder if they will ever let me go. I’m tired of just books and the window-” The boy paused, looking at her shocked face. “Oh no, I quite like the books! It’s just…” He looked down at his slippers, embarrassed. 

“You want more than that, of course.” Amelia said, with a worried frown.

He slowly tugged the window shut, wiping his hands on the linen pyjamas the Choir had given him. 

“I’d be happy just going outside. I don’t want a big adventure or a grand destiny.” The way his voice twisted slightly when he said those words told Amelia a different story. Maybe she had given him too many fantasy novels? 

“I just want to walk around in the square outside like everyone else.” He said, picking at the hem of the pyjamas. “Or see the ocean up close. On clear days I can see it, you know. It looks awfully far off, but I can see the glint of the sun off it, and on hot days, sometimes the seagulls perch by the window.” He sighed wistfully. “Seems all my time is reading or bird watching, when I’m not being stuck with needles.”

“The Choir isn’t too awful to you, are they?” Amelia asked. He frowned, sitting next to her on the bed. The Grey stains had nearly vanished, but the whites of his eyes were still somewhat darker then they should have been.

“They are making me better, even with the terrible needles and medicines.” He sighed, thinking. “The food is horrible.”

“You don’t remember anything different!” Amelia said, chuckling. 

“I know it’s bad.” He said, crossing his arms stubbornly. “And it’s so loud at night.”

“Loud at night? What happens?” 

“There's...singing. Like chanting.” The boy looked reluctant to say, a show of shyness Amelia had not seen for the last days week. “I try going under the sheets, try to burrow my head, I still hear it. Voices saying something about a cause, or cause-em. Then they start singing. It sounds like ‘mal-a diktus do nam best yah’.”

“Well, the Choir is trying their best to study the gods. You must be hearing some kind of ritual!” Amelia said, excited. The boy shuddered. 

“I don’t know. It doesn't seem right. What if the gods don’t like it?”

“The Great Ones are sympathetic in spirit. We need only to catch their attention, and then we will find gifts greater than the Blood!” Amelia said, smiling. “That’s what The Vicar told me!”

The boy pondered this. 

“Well...I hope they are nice. What does the Vicar do?”

Amelia grinned widely. She knew all about this!

“Vicar Laurence administers Communion, or bequeathing The Good Blood upon the Healing Church’s congregation! He also gives sermons on the Blood and the Ancient Truths discovered at Byrgenwerth, as well as going over day to day church business. I am his student-he chose me to be his Successor!”

The boy looked a bit shocked. “That’s a very big job.” 

“Well, it’s alright. He’s preparing me for it. It’s a lot of work, along with preparing to be a Blood Saint, as well. I will be the provider of Communion in more ways than one. When my blood is no longer potent, I will remain as Vicar.” Amelia smiled. The boy looked concerned.

“You give your blood?” 

“Well, not yet. But when I’m older, I will.” Amelia explained.

“Why?” He asked, still looking worried. 

“To share the Church’s healing gifts! My blood replicated the Old Blood’s healing after treatments, so I am a source of the Good Blood. All Blood Saints are like that. It helps others, selflessly.”

The boy looked at the ‘The Knight That Shined’ on the bed. 

“Like a sacrifice.”

“Um, well, it’s not that extreme, not like dying and becoming the sun.” Amelia said, waving a hand. “But it is a sacrifice, yes.”

The rain slowly began to cease outside, and weak sunlight struggled to illuminate the room through the clouds. The boy stared longingly out the window. 

“What will I do when I’m better, Amelia? They told me about…” He paused, swallowing hard. “What happened.”

“Well, the church has an orphanage. That’s where I grew up, but Laurence took me in when I was quite young, so I don’t remember it well. The Choir might take you, in fact! The children they teach are educated by them, and become part of the Choir-”

“No!” The boy interjected, horrified. Amelia tilted her head, puzzled. 

“You will learn all about the Cosmos, all the secrets of creation-” She tried, before he cut her off again. 

“No, you don’t understand-The Choir, well, they give me the creeps!” His voice was the loudest she had heard it, even though it was only a hair louder than a raspy whisper. “I would be happier to be at an orphanage or anywhere but here! The moment I’m allowed to, I’ll rush out that door and never come back!” He crossed his arms defiantly. 

“Well, you’ve made your point…” 

“I...apologize for the dramatics.” He said, looking down. “But it’s how I feel, truly! But, promise me something?”

“Of course!” Amelia said, leaning in. 

“Promise that you’ll visit me? When I’m better, and out of here, I mean.” He asked shyly, looking down. “You...you are my first friend-the only one I remember!” 

An expression of horror came on his face as a realization dawned on him.

“Oh dear, do you think I have friends I forgot? Do you think they are terribly worried?”

“I can’t say, I’m sorry.” Amelia put a hand on his shoulder. “No matter what, you still have me, right?”

“Of course! It’s no matter. I’ll make oodles of new friends, I’m certain!” He said, smiling at her with determination.

\---

Amelia skipped down the stairs as she left. Well, the patient hated the Choir’s food. Poor thing probably had no memory of good food! Well, she would have to bring him something next time.

Amelia neatly dodged a wayward board left on the steps, noticing a hole being carved in the old stone walls of the tower, being supervised by Ludwig and a man she did not quite recognize. Tall and lanky, the old man seemed to loom over the two carvers and Ludwig himself. Granted, after meeting Logarius, Amelia was certain that he was simply a very tall man, rather than a Pthumerian. 

“Sir Ludwig!” She called, making her way over. A chunk of rock was dislodged with a shower of dust, revealing an overgrown, undeveloped hill on the other side. Ludwig quickly jumped in front of Amelia as a small shower of shones hit the floor as the carvers continued. The old stranger nodded approvingly at the work, taking no heed of Amelia.

“Careful Lass, don’t want you getting hurt. Having a heavy rock hit one on the foot is no fun, and I know that from experience.” Ludwig said, smiling down at Amelia. 

“Ludwig, who’s that?” Amelia asked, looking at the old man. He was standing with his back to Ludwig and Amelia, not paying them any attention. 

“Oh. That there is the hunter Gehrman. His idea was to build a workshop outside the tower’s stairs. You know, for some extra space, and so the Upper Cathedral ward can remain accessible. That little old garden on the hill has been long abandoned, so it’s a perfect spot for a workshop.”

“He’s a hunter?’ Amelia asked. Ludwig nodded. 

“Well, a Hunter hunts beasts, so the warriors that fight beasts should be thusly named Hunters. Of course, we aren’t hunting game like deer and such. I fear the bloodlicking beasts from Cainhurst are just the start of a worse trend.”

The carvers fully broke through the old wall, letting sunlight stream into the tower. Gehrman stepped through the new, crude door frame. 

“The workshop will go up there, on the hill.” He instructed the workers. Amelia peeked through the hole, seeing the densely overgrown garden. Small stone paths crisscrossed the hill, mounds of white and yellow wild flowers growing between. 

“What about the garden? Seems an awful shame to get rid of it.” Ludwig remarked, joining him in the garden. He plucked one of the yellow flowers, offering it to Amelia. She took it, smiling.

Gehrman surveyed the land, face unreadable in the shadow cast by his top hat. He was old, far older than Ludwig, who was in the midst of middle age, his narrow face heavily lined and framed by mid length, stringy white hair. 

“We’ll only cut it back. We just need a workshop for tools.” He said, nodding.

“Ah, we can make more brilliant weapons like your burial blade.” Ludwig said approvingly. Gehrman nodded. 

“It’s an incredible tool. Going from a blade to a full scythe in the blink of an eye...perhaps we could manage that for a hammer? Perhaps a dagger to a sword?” Ludwig pondered.

“I’m certain we can. Our workshop will make Logarius’s little passion project look like a toy box.” Gehrman said, a smirk forming on his lined face.

“Suppose we ought to get the Executioners in on this. They are the only battle trained sect of the Church, and the Vilebloods know better than to leave Cainhurst these days.” Ludwig said, stroking his stubbly chin. “Of course, I had some different ideas for recruitment.”

“Which would be?” Gehrman asked. Amelia looked from man to man, listening intently. This was the future of the church, she felt. 

“The good people of Yharnam, of course. It’s their duty to protect their home from monsters, yes? Might cut down on the crime, too, if they are more focused on monsters then robbing and killing each other.” Ludwig joked. 

“What a city.” Gehrman sighed. “You think you could whip them into shape?”

“Of course Ludwig can! The people love him, he’s a hero!” Amelia piped up. Ludwig smiled humbly, rubbing the back of his head. Gehrman looked down at Amelia as if he just noticed her. 

‘ _ I’m probably too short for him to see me down here _ .’ Amelia thought, frowning.

“I did make a commanding rank in the army.” Ludwig said. “Outfit them with armor, arm them with our own Workshop’s weapons, a bit of discipline and we will have a fighting force in no time.”

“If only it were that simple.” Gehrman remarked. 

“Well, you continue taking on apprentices, and I’ll start recruiting all who are fit to join the hunt.” Ludwig said. “Maria shows great promise.”

“Indeed.” Gehrman said, his voice sounding strange. Amelia felt a chill.

‘Especially for a Cainhurst defector! Very strange she would want to help the Church.” Ludwig added. 

“She’s quite unique. You could not find another woman like her anywhere.” Gehrman gazed off into the distance. Ludwig smiled uncomfortably. 

“Well, Amelia. Let's get you home, right?” Ludwig said, shooing Amelia back through the opening. “I’ll meet with you later, Gehrman.” 

“Of course, take care.” Gehrman motioned the builders back over. 

\---

“Told you, he’s a bit odd. Quite the sight when he’s cutting down beasts.” Ludwig said, leading the way down. He waved at the dweller, before realizing his mistake and greeting him instead. The Dweller smiled and waved back. 

“How's your friend doing, Is he talking yet?”

“Yes, lots! He’s doing well, but he hates the Choir’s food.”

“Well, that won’t do. If I get a moment to bake, I’ll try making him something.” Ludwig said. “Watch that puddle, now.”

Amelia deftly dodged the puddle pooling between two cobblestones. 

“Do you think the beasts will get worse?”

“I know they will. Gerhman thinks so too.” Ludwig sighed. “I was hoping to be happily retired. Poor old Moonbright isn’t happy about going back to being a warhorse. Suppose I’m not, either.” 

Ludwig and Amelia both looked up to Vicar Laurence standing in the doorway of the cathedral, smiling at them both.

“However, it’s worth it to protect the ones I love.” Ludwig said, quickening his pace. “Hello, my Vicar.”

“Hello, my Knight.” Laurence replied, pecking Ludwig on the cheek. “And hello Amelia!” Laurence embraced her, Amelia laughing happily. “Well, our busy schedules have lined up. We can finally have that dinner together that you promised me, Ludwig.” Laurence said, winking at the man.

\--- 

The full moon was nearly perfectly aligned with his window. Even with the curtains pulled closed, the light from it seemed to illuminate his room brightly. The boy pulled his head back under the pillow, trying to block out the ghastly noise from outside.

“ _ Maledictus _ .” A high, female voice intoned. He plugged his ears, but the chanting continued.

“ _ Pater do si donas _ .” A chorus of voices replied. 

“ _ Inficimur _ .” She sang.

“ _ Argentum aquae in tenebris _ .” Came the eerie response. He thrashed about under the sheets, praying they would stop. 

This had gone on for the last few days. When he had first been able to walk without support, he had tried the door knob that very night. It had been tightly locked. There was no way he could have sneaked past the milling and bustling Choir during the day, and even then, where would he go? He had no idea where Amelia lived. Perhaps he could make his unsteady way to the Cathedral he stared at every day from the window, but they might take him back.

On particularly desperate nights, he had slammed his fists as hard as he could against the door, weakly begging to be let out. He had even wept, something which he could never tell Amelia.

There had never been a response, and none of the Choir seemed to have noticed this, or more likely, did not care. He had told Amelia about the Choir’s apathy towards him, and she tried to help, but things only seemed to get worse.

When he had told her about the sounds at night, she had seemed excited that he was witness to a holy ritual. Would she feel the same, if she was here, trembling under thin blankets while eerie voices chanted nonsense outside.

“Sanguine!” Came the roar of voices. “Sanguine!”

Blessed silence ensued afterwards. Breathing hard, the boy slowly peaked out of the sheets, brushing his sweaty blonde hair out of his eyes. For a moment, possibly a trick of the light, the blinding moonlight appeared red, then dimmed, scaring him further. Footsteps sounded down the hall.

“Another failure.” A voice remarked. 

“Micolash said that the ritual would work.” Someone replied. “Of course, I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to scramble the instructions so we cannot get results.”

“I’m sick of working with Mensis.” The first voice hissed. “Hoarding what they learn, only giving us scraps of their findings, while we, The Choir, freely share with them. They do not respect our shared heritage as inheritors of Byrgenwerth.” 

“They don’t have to deal with charity cases, either.”

He slunk back under the blankets, fearful. The shadows of the two scholar’s feet were visible from under the door.

“Quiet. The child might hear.”

“Are you kidding? He’s probably fast asleep.”

“Interesting case, huh? Never reversed Ashen Blood in that late a stage, especially in one so young, and the whelp is downright thriving. Getting a bit sassy though. I’m too busy to say good morning to every brat I meet.”

“Do you think he’d be suitable for the Orphanage?” Came the response. The boy shuddered.  


Please, please no. Please, let him just escape this awful place.

“No. Too many variables.”

“Oh, yeah. With him being foreign and all. Heavens knows where he’s been.”

“Right. If Yharnam is to ascend, we don’t want any damn outsiders making contact with The Great Ones first, right?”

Both voices broke into laughter as they walked away. The boy breathed a sigh, and curled up around the pillow, trying to slow his racing heartbeat.

\---

Another stormy day. Amelia double checked her basket, feeling doubly burdened by both it and her satchel of books and notes.

Ludwig had found time to bake. Still lamenting his stolen retirement, Ludwig still had time to engage in some of the domestic activities he had come to enjoy in his duties as a Healing Church monk. Strudel was a delicacy from his homeland, a tiny city state to the west, over the mountains.

Things were still quite busy on the stairs. More workmen bustled about, setting up racks, putting up work tables. Amelia poked her head through the hole she saw carved yesterday.

The garden remained mostly untouched, the yellow and white flowers blowing this way and that in the slowly strengthening breeze. The sky was cloudy and turbulent, threatening a storm like the day before.

On the top of the small hill stood Gehrman, looking skyward. Unbothered by the impending rain, his stringy white hair fluttered around his lined face. Amelia could see his lips moving slightly, as if he were speaking to someone up above on an invisible, lofty balcony.

A distant roll of thunder sounded. Gehrman did not jump, as Amelia did, or even seem to hear it. He slowly turned, looking at the new doorway.

Amelia jumped out of sight, nearly spilling her basket and dropping her books. She scuttled up the stairs, unsure of what she just saw.

\---

Something was wrong.

While every time she had ascended the steps, the Choir had been busy, yes, milling about, but now, there was tangible excitement in the air. Amelia stood there, waiting on the top of the stairs as the white robed scholars rushed around her, excitedly speaking to each other, and none paying any mind to the increasingly frustrated girl swinging her basket to and fro. She glared at the large door at the end of the hallway leading to the balcony, where a large number of students had congregated, chatting. Why would no one give her the time of day? 

Finally, a lone scholar walked briskly past, carrying an urn. Amelia was not going to let the opportunity slide.

“Excuse me! Ma’am!” She called, trotting after her down the steps. The woman did not even turn her head to look back. 

“Miss, I am sent here by the Vicar himself!”

The woman paused mid step, slowly turning around to face Amelia. Amelia glanced at the urn. The lid twitched slightly, like a pot about to boil over.

“Ah. The Vicar’s student. What are you here for, again?” She said, frowning sourly. A terrible sucking noise emitted from the urn.

“I am here to see my friend-the boy in the clinic?” Amelia tried. 

“Oh. Well. I’m afraid you can’t see the kid today. He’s been blessed, you see.”

“Blessed? What does that mean?” Amelia asked, confused and worried.

“As a nun in training, you ought to know. He’s got healing blood now, the blood test this morning confirmed it. Guess all that blood treatment made him a saint.” The Choir member smiled mirthlessly, and slammed the lid back down on the urn as it began to rise. Black ooze began to leak out from under the lid.

“That’s wonderful!” Amelia said, smiling. “I ought to go congratulate him-”

“No. He’s not to be seen by anyone. Not until the ceremony makes it all official. Forgive me. I have to go back to studying the gifts of the Cosmos in great detail. Apologies.” She said, turning on her heel and walking off, leaving a trail of black spots as the urn continued to leak. They spread on the black and white tiles like ink blotted on paper. Amelia stepped back, lest her pristine leather boots be stained.

“Very rude!” Amelia exclaimed as she was sure the Choir member was out of earshot. “And rather messy.” Well, she was not going to be swayed by one apathetic Choir member. Surely, as a Blood Saint to be herself, she could visit the patient, yes?

As soon as she took one step down the hall towards the boy’s room, she was instantly seized by another Choir Scholar. 

“Sorry, miss. Your friend is busy undergoing tests.” He said, pulling her back by the shoulders. 

“Hey! Let me go!” Amelia yelped, kicking her legs. 

“We are testing. You are an uncertain variable that may disturb our results.” He continued, carrying her like a sack of potatoes towards the door. 

“Please, just let me see him!” Amelia demanded, only to be met with stubborn silence as the man practically tossed her outside on the bridge by the scruff like an unruly cat. 

Unhurt except for bruised pride, Amelia huffed angrily, putting her hands on her hips. What a terrible way to treat someone!

As she made her furious way downstairs, she began to mull over what she just learned. If her friend was found to be a blood saint, that would mean he would be taken in by the Church, just as she was. How wonderful! Perhaps he could also study under Vicar Laurence, just like her! 

Amelia smiled, her anger fading. Of course, she would alert the Vicar of the Choir's awful behavior, but now she was imagining a brighter future. Her friend would be given a name, and an important, integral role to the church, just like she had! Perhaps, if The Vicar took him in, he could be like a brother to her!

\---

The day that he had hoped for, wished for, prayed for, had finally come. He was finally able to leave the miserable room and go outside.

It had all started the day after the rainstorm. Getting his blood drawn had become a regular occurence. It hardly bothered him anymore, but this time, a few minutes afterwards, he heard a great excitement from outside his door. He had immediately hidden under the sheets, but strong arms had thrown off the covers and pulled him out, and thus began a terrible, terrible day of tests, blood drawn again and again, all under the vast chandelier in the large lobby. 

He heard a commotion while surrounded by curious choir members, heard Amelia’s voice. He tried calling back to her, but his voice was still too weak to make it, and he was left alone with the cold, inhuman Choir.

The next day had been better, he had been left alone as usual. After being given the usual unpalatable breakfast, things took a turn for the worse. Two Choir Scholars had entered the room, beckoning for him to come with them. Reluctant, but fearful, he had made his trembling way towards them.

After being flanked by the two imposing white robed Scholars, he had been escorted quickly, far, far too quickly for his still weak legs and lungs, down endless, winding stairs bustling with men milling about with hammers, saws, and other tools. When he began to wheeze from the new exertion, his lungs on fire, one of the robed Scholars roughly picked him up, continuing without a word. 

“Where are you taking me?” He had rasped. 

“The Vicar wants to see you.” The man carrying him said. A few concerned faces rushed past, but the boy found himself unable to focus his eyes. The world seemed to swim and twist in his vision. 

For the first time he could recall, sunlight warmed his cheeks as they left the stone Chapel. He blinked in the light, his eyes unused to the radiance. Finally, he was outside, but at the cost of being taken by two of his accursed captors. 

He shut his eyes, waiting for them to reach their destination and leave him be.

\---

“Vicar Laurence!” The boy found himself rudely deposited on the ground in a cozy looking office awash with sunlight. Clutching his swirling head, he looked up to see a skeletal, bespectacled man seated at an ornate wooden desk, carved with similar shapes as the statues that had whizzed past as he was roughly carted here. 

The man, who he assumed was Vicar Laurence stood, examining him closely. He drew back with fright under the man’s sharp gaze. Amelia always talked about Laurence as if he was nice, so why did he seem so cold?

“I believe you said he was fully healed.”

“Yes, but the stains remain for a time after exposure. They will fade within a few months.” A scholar responded. The boy put a hand to his own cheeks. He had not been allowed a mirror, but he knew he had terrible stains from his illness. How bad were they?

“I suppose the sunlight highlights their appearance.” The Vicar said. “You may leave. I would like to talk to the prospective Blood Saint.”

The Scholars bowed and left, shutting the door behind them. The boy hated them both immensely, but was even more afraid in their absence. He looked around for an exit, despite knowing very well he was still too weak to walk very far.

The Vicar sat back down, smiling. 

“I must congratulate you. Blood Saints are a rare thing indeed.” He said, steepling his fingers. “Has Amelia told you about her duties.”

The boy nodded shallowly. If he played along, maybe he would be allowed to leave.

“You will become an important part of the Church. Blood Saints like yourself are our literal lifeblood. Without them, we would not have communion. The Old Blood needs time to replenish in the tombs, but with Saints, we have our own source, created daily within their veins.”

Laurence waited for a response, and frowned slightly when the boy stayed silent. He continued anyway. 

“Of course, no one is forcing you to take on a very weighty and sacred task, but if you do, you will have a home, life's necessities, and a purpose.” Laurence said. “You already have a position secured. Before I even heard of your blessing, the next Blood Saint to be found had already been promised to a sect of the Church.”

The boy nodded shallowly.

“So, what do you say? You will not need to give blood until you are older, but you will be taken care of, educated, and be part of Mankind’s ascension.”

Had our unfortunate hero been somewhat older, he would have realized, as we do, how terribly unfair of a question this is to ask of a mere child. Laurence was not playing fair. 

The boy pondered. Amelia was a blood saint, and she seemed happy enough. If he accepted, would he be able to see her every day? That would be wonderful! Of course, the idea of giving his blood when he was earlier scared him, but he was quite familiar with needles by this point from the Choir healing him.

It would be a sacrifice, just like The Knight that Shined, and a sacrifice with his best and only friend would not be so bad.

“Yes.” he rasped. “I will become a Blood Saint.”

\---

Laurence had asked for the Choir to let him meet with the prospective Blood Saint before the ceremony, as was usual. Laurence believed he had worked out any guilt from the poisoning. It had to be done, it was a mere mistake, just one misstep in man’s ascent.

Until he saw the wan, scared face peeking between the two Scholar’s robes, the sunlight from his office window revealed the boy’s grey clouded eyes and stained cheeks. Laurence had always taken a hands off approach to trying to forward the church, but now, the consequences of his actions stood before him, frozen between two strangers. 

He remembered a foriegn couple, from the same western country as Ludwig, who had attended communion. Laurence tried not to mix with outsiders, but they had been honestly interested in the Holy Blood, and foriegn coin was as good as Native, and their pockets were deep. They had brought their boy along, an only child who had curiously taken everything in silently, the same boy that had stood before him, terrified and frozen. 

He himself had wrenched away the child’s parents, poisoned them all, and carelessly threw away their son’s true name due to carelessness.

He had made up for it, had he not? Now the boy would be privileged to help bring mankind closer to ascension! It was a shame his parents had to die, but well, he was hardly missing them now, was he? The ache in the Vicar’s heart and throat would fade, certainly. He thanked Oedon that this one was promised to be stationed far away in the woods, out of his sight. 

It was a shame that he and Amelia had grown so close, but she had other friends. He he not been a product of his mistake, Laurence would have happily taken him in, but the guilt would hold Laurence, and Humanity back from use of the Blood.

Besides, the boy would be in good hands.

He pushed the shame to the back of his mind as he shook the boy’s hand, congratulating and thanking him for agreeing to become a Blood Saint. 

“Do you have any preferences for your new name?” Laurence asked. The boy had only stared at the carpet.

\--- 

Amelia stood beside Laurence before the altar, surveying the church members who had gathered for the Sainting ceremony. Thankfully for her friend, only the Clergy of the Healing Church, as well as a few curious Choir members were present, leaving the pews in the Cathedral far from full. 

The organist played a hymn. Laurence glanced down at her, smiling reassuringly. He looked every inch the pious, noble Vicar, practically glowing in his ornate white robes, elegantly embroidered and adorned with gleaming silver thread. The only spot of color was the golden pendant around his neck.

‘This will be your duty someday, Amelia’, he had told her that morning, as he carefully adjusted the collar of her ceremonial robe with his skeletal fingers. ‘Someday, you will Saint those blessed with healing blood, just like yourself. You will be a provider of Communion of your own blood, achieving what I could not.’

Amelia stood beside her teacher, feeling the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, and worry for the boy in her heart. She had not seen him since that rainy day, making her worry in the few days past. When her blood was found to have been holy, her ceremony had been quite overwhelming, and she had the support of the Vicar. He had no one but her. Thank heavens she was able to shadow Vicar Laurence for this holy task!

A cough from one of the front pews startled Amelia, and she looked towards the source of the noise. An unfamiliar man in the Byrgenwerth uniform grinned at her, his eyes sunken and bagged, his face almost as gaunt as the Vicar’s. She looked up at the Vicar, who rolled his eyes. 

“Of all times, Micolash shows up.” Laurence grumbled. 

\---

The organ started up once more, getting Amelia’s attention. A side door in the cathedral opened, a White robed nun leading her friend, who was now similarly dressed as she was. All white robes, topped by a fluttering holy shawl. He was guided to the altar by a Choir member, his face pale.

The Vicar began to recite the holy words as the boy approached, raising a jewel encrusted chalice in his pale left hand. The atmosphere in the Cathedral became tense, rippling with energy.  


“Sanguine sancta.” He intoned, ending the prayer. The Organ rose in intensity. Amelia smiled at her friend to reassure him as he approached and stood before Vicar Laurence. The Choir scholar drew back, vanishing among the pews.. 

“As a vessel of the Holy Blood, the Blood of Holy Oedon, you are to be Sainted.” Vicar Laurence said, holding the chalice above the boy's head. Frozen, perhaps from fear, perhaps in awe of the holy ritual he was apart of, the boy stood stock still, gazing up at the bottom of the chalice that hovered above him. He knelt, never breaking his gaze from the sacred cup.

“Through this blood, you shall be reborn.” The Vicar slowly tipped the glass, pouring the contents onto the boy’s head, turning his blonde hair a dark red, the color of the Holy Blood. The sweet aroma of it filled the room as it dripped down his face and on the white holy robes, the boy looking started by the proceedings. The organist stopped playing, leaving a gap of silence.

“Rise, Alfred, Blood Saint of the Healing Church.” Rise he did, to the solemn clapping of those in attendance. Alfred turned to the audience, face blank from fear and confusion. 

\---

The moment that the decorum broke, and the Church members began to leave the chapel, Amelia rushed towards Alfred to hug him tightly, never minding the blood.

Laurence had left rather quickly, joining the other clergy in the square to speak about important matters, no doubt. Ludwig smiled and waved at Amelia as he left to join the rest. 

“I’m so proud of you!” Amelia cheered. He laughed nervously, hugging her back. 

“Did you have to go through that too? They told me to kneel, but I did not have the slightest idea he would pour it on me!” He said, wiping his blood soaked hair out of his eyes.

“Sorry, I wanted to tell you everything, but they told me I couldn’t see you!” Amelia apologized. “The Choir threw me out. What do you think of your new name?” She asked.

Alfred pondered hard, trying to wipe off the blood on his cheek with his sleeve. 

“I’m not sure, but I suppose it’s mine now. Hm...Alfred. Does it sound heroic?” He asked.

“Very much so, I think!” Amelia said smiling. She offered him her handkerchief, which he happily accepted, dabbing at his face.

“WIll we be able to see each other still? Since I’m a blood saint now, too?” Alfred asked. The blood was starting to dry around his forehead, despite his efforts. 

“I can’t see why not-” Amelia started, as a long shadow fell over them both. Both children looked upwards to see the towering form of Logarius, looming above them.

“So, you are the Blood Saint promised to the Executioners.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy don't you love Morally grey characters? Or characters that think they are doing right when they are very, very wrong. Fuck you Laurence. I wouldn't trust you in charge of a houseplant, let alone a church. Fear the old blood, you fool.   
> I thought I might as well deliver on some Ludwig/Laurence, because they are basically Amelia's gay, morally questionable fathers. Anyway I got to Ludwig in the DLC and that fight was very hard. And heartbreaking. Sorry Ludwig. The Old Hunters dlc also gave me some more information on the Church before it went terribly horribly wrong(er). At the moment, Gehrman and Ludwig are starting up the Old Hunters, building the workshop secret area. And hooray, Alfred got his name! I'm so happy because that makes writing MUCH easier.  
> I did not want to write about Gehrman because he is very gross. The more I learn about him and Maria the more I want to kill him in every play through, but unfortunately, I have to because I decided this would be as much a World Building/making sense of lore scraps fic as it would be an Alfred fic. As well as an Au fic. Why do I do this to myself  
> Well, we will be leaving the machinations of Ludwig, Yharnam's lovable horseman to be and Ghernam, the first incel, as Logarius is here to ruin everything. Hopefully I'll get out chapter 4 sooner.  
> At a dear friend's request, Alfred is not the Cainhurst baby, as his parents were nice, kind, nobody foreigners with cash, which is a bad thing to be in Yharnam. Have I mentioned Laurence is awful.


	4. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years and years ago, Alfred finally finds meaning and belonging with the Executioners, at the cost of leaving his first friend behind.  
> During the night of the Hunt, Alfred returns from the Forbidden woods empty handed, just in time to witness the night's most terrifying scene yet. Quincy has a close encounter with the cosmos.

It was an arduous and hard journey back from Byrgenwerth, and Alfred was left in a foul mood. Once again, he had found nothing! He and Quincy had been attacked, quite unfairly, by a member of the Choir as soon as they entered the damned place, which was bad enough after being swarmed by the men turned flies outside.  
When the two men entered, Quincy had looked upwards, hearing footsteps from the upper level of the old school.  
The sight of one of the Choir brought back strong, hateful memories that he had tried to repress, but seeing one of the white robed, blind folded scholars descending the ancient, creaking Bergynwerth staircase awakened old childhood rage. Wordlessly, she attacked, lashing out with cane and tendril. He tried to control himself in battle, for Quincy’s sake.  
After a difficult battle, the Last Scholar lay dead, leaving him and his companion to explore the abandoned place. A clumsy movement on Alfred’s part knocked over one of the many curious glass jars, spilling eyes all over the floor. Shamefully, he and Quincy both shouted in fear and surprise as the orbs bounced and rolled wetly across the wooden boards, trailing slime. What hideous things were the scholars doing here?  
All of the ancient institution’s walls were lined with dark wooden bookshelves, groaning under the weight of countless tomes. At one time, the shelves of arcane knowledge and countless books would have entranced him, but he was on a mission-there was no time to browse! Skimming through any promising books, he found little to do with the Blood, Vilebloods, or even his dear master-only a lot of gibberish about the Great Ones, eyes, and ascension of mankind. Worthless!  
The only book that gave mention to the Wretched Creatures was old news-the scholar that betrayed his fellows. Damn that man for causing all this trouble!   
Of course, Alfred had to reflect on the fact that without the traitor Scholar, what purpose would he have? No. No, that was not worth exploring. Not tonight.  
At this point, he needed to give Quincy comfort, as the man was shaken over having to kill a human, not a beast, and another explosion of eyeballs after his coat brushed against another jar did little to help. He had patted QUincy’s back in a jovial manner, congratulating him as the man stood there, staring at his bloodied axe, seeming transfixed.   
“She attacked us first, dear Hunter. We took her down in self defense, yes? All this time among these books, with the beasts outside, must have driven her mad. No need to dwell.” he had assured him. Quincy had swallowed hard, but nodded.  
“Come now, it’s just a few eyes. Nothing compared to the Beast we faced in Old Yharnam. They can’t hurt you, they only roll about and make quite a mess.” Alfred added, kicking away a large eyeball that had rolled by Quincy’s embroidered boot.  
“Right as always, partner.” Quincy said, giving him a weak smile.  
Having given up on moldering old tomes, he instead looked for any maps, praying for the way to the Vileblood’s Castle. Of course, the bunch of fools of the Choir only saw fit to map the stars, only useful if they needed to sail and navigate! What was to be expected from a bunch who thought collecting eyes was a passable hobby, and that a simple walking stick turned whip was a decent weapon-his defeat at the hands of the Imposter was a fluke, of course. He had bid Quincy goodbye as the man started to take interest in the attic, climbing the stairs. Alfred was certain he would find the path to Cainhurst elsewhere, and he was unwilling to admit his fear of heights. Seeing Quincy nimbly climb the ladder made his right shoulder twinge with an old memory.  
So here he was, stewing in disappointment by the Forest’s opened gate, a state only interrupted when something that was strange even by the night’s standards happened.  
The world turned red, the hellish light shining behind him, leaving him staring at his own brilliantly blue shadow.  
Alfred turned and looked upwards to behold an otherworldly sight. The moon-massive and engorged, loomed above him like it was to fall to earth and destroy him and the city. Through some trick of the light, or wicked prank of the gods, it was a hideous, pale red, casting a sinister halo in the churning, purple sky. Alfred gripped the iron railing, his knuckles going white under his gloves.  
A child’s wail echoed distantly. Alfred fumbled for a lead elixir. 

\---Long Ago----  
Surrounded by chattering Choir and clergy, Laurence had felt fully in his element. It was a beautiful day, he had taken care of Logarius’s demands, and performed another ritual to further to church, and most importantly, Mankind’s ascension. He toasted his fellows, raising his wineglass to applause.   
Everything was going wonderfully, until a long shadow fell over the small group, blocking out the radiant sunshine. Laurence could have sworn that the birds chirping in the eaves of Cathedral Ward went silent.   
“Vicar Laurence.” Logarious’s voice was polite, but Laurence could hear the fury underneath. He craned his neck to see the artificially serene face of the Pthumerian.  
“Logarius.” Laurence responded evenly, swirling his wine in the glass with manufactured casualness. Seeing a towering, furious Pthumerian brought back terrifying memories of his time as a student, scouring the catacombs, but those times were long past. Logarius answered to him, and he would not dare make a scene in front of Laurence's devoted scholars and clergy.  
“I wish to speak to you privately. About the newest Blood Saint.” Laurence nodded shallowly, and turned to his company.   
“Excuse me for just a moment.”  
The calm masks that both men wore broke off the second they were out of sight in a private, shaded alleyway. Laurence crossed his arms, glaring up at the Pthumerian as he erupted into anger. Crows perched in the stone gutters above took off at the sudden noise, cawing.  
“You damned scoundrel!” Logarius thundered. “I ask for a blood saint, and you give me a child? What game are you playing here?!”  
Laurence took a long pull from his drink, letting Logarius seethe.  
“I gave you the first Blood Saint we could find. You Pthumerians live rather long, so you can wait a few years to draw his blood. Besides, Executioners join rather young, do they not? Gives you more time for indoctrination.”  
“He won’t be an Executioner.” Logarius growled. “Contact with Vilebloods would ruin his sacred blood.”  
“Right. It would not be a problem if you did not rely on such brutish methods.” Laurence casually swirled his wine about. “Beating someone to death with a wheel is overkill, don’t you think?”  
“You disparage our ways while taking advantage of what I do. Because my Executioners and myself, the Vilebloods are trapped in their miserable castle, too scared to leave and face justice. Your church would not have lasted a day if they still held power in Yharnam.” Logarius rumbled.  
Laurence sneered.  
“And if it was not for me, you would still be rotting in the Pthumerian Catacombs with your insane kin, waiting for the end of the world to finally bury your destroyed kingdom once and for all. Tell me, how long were you laying in that locked casket before an enterprising young student decided to investigate and let you out?”  
Both men glared at each other silently. Laurence smirked as he saw tiny pinpricks of tears in the Pthumerian’s eyes under his massive, bushy brows. It was far too easy to reopen a wound that was centuries old with the old bastard.  
“Take the boy. You take good care of your men, so I trust you will take good care of Alfred. And don’t make me regret digging you up.” Laurence said, dramatically finishing his wine.  
“I ought to use one of my wheels on you, Vicar.” Logarius spat, giving a shallow bow.  
“I’d like to see you try.”  
\---  
Amelia led Alfred out to the square where the others had congregated. Alfred tilted his head up, eyes closed to take in the sunshine on his pale, blood soaked skin.   
“What are you doing?” Amelia giggled. He must have made a strange sight, a bloodied, white robed boy gazing upwards, eyes closed. He did not care, however.  
“It’s so warm out here.” He said, not opening his eyes. “I’d touch the window pane when the sun was shining for the warmth, but now I can really feel it.”  
“I think the isolation made you a bit funny.” Amelia said, smiling. He opened his eyes to grin back at her.  
“I want to enjoy it, before I’m shut away again.” Alfred started, noticing the look of horror on Amelia’s face.   
“Alfred, you won’t be shut away ever again. I promise.” She said, taking his hand.   
“Are you sure?” A life where he was not cooped up in a tiny room, with only books for company, well, that only existed in the story books Amelia gave him. The idea that he could go outside, much like the knights and heroes of the yellowed old pages seemed even more like fiction then a man becoming the sun or a hero slaying a dragon.  
“Yes! You were just very, very sick and needed to be kept indoors. You can walk around and breathe with no problems, so you can be outside as much as you like.”  
The world suddenly seemed a whole lot brighter. Alfred turned to see the Vicar and the man he had met in the Cathedral emerge from an alleyway, both looking somewhat unhappy. He gazed at the tall man curiously.   
He had been frightened when he was approached by the giant, who had introduced himself as Master Logarius. He had shaken Alfred’s hand in his massive grasp, and Logarius had smiled down warmly at him and ruffled his hair kindly, not minding the dampness from the soaking blood.   
Alfred was unsure what to make of it. The meeting was much less unpleasant than being literally dragged to Laurence’s office, and Logarius had seemed genuine when he was greeted. He had politely excused himself, and swept out as quickly as he came.   
“Oh no, looks like the Vicar and Logarius were fighting again.” Amelia sighed.   
“Why? Why would they fight?” Alfred asked. Logarius noticed his gaze, and nodded, giving him a friendly smile.   
“They don’t really see eye to eye.” Amelia replied. Alfred nodded. With how tall Logarius was, no one could see him eye to eye.  
A man and a woman in blue robes joined Logarius as he walked away from the Vicar. Alfred noticed that a skinny, exhausted looking man suddenly cornered the Vicar, gesturing excitedly. Laurence shot Amelia a tired look before going to converse with the stranger.   
“Oh, that’s Micolash. Vicar Laurence was not happy to see him.”  
Is Vicar Laurence happy to see anyone? Alfred wondered, as the pair in blue robes approached him.   
“You must be Alfred. Congratulations!” The man said, bending down to shake his hand. “I’m Philip, and this is Bernice.” The woman nodded. Taller than the man and far broader, Bernice resembled one of the superhuman knights from Alfred’s stories, her long brown hair carefully braided. Philip himself was of an average height, his dark skin typical of the people who lived on the southwestern part of the continent, as Alfred had learned pouring over maps and travelogues of Yharnam scholars.  
Alfred could not take his eyes off their robes. A white symbol stood out on the front, framed by an elegantly embroidered hem. A dramatically draped cloak showed off the Church’s holy banner.   
“Welcome to the Executioners.” Bernice said, giving him a powerful pat on the shoulder. “You have to be our youngest recruit so far, but don’t worry, we have some boys and girls around your age to make friends.”  
“Oh, that’s alright, I have Amelia!” Alfred said, smiling at her.   
Philip frowned.   
“Well, sorry Alfred, but we are supposed to take you to the Executioner’s workshop today.”  
“Today? Where is it?” Alfred asked. Amelia shot him a worried look.   
“Near the Forest. It’s actually not too far from where Bergynwerth used to be. It’s half a day by carriage, though.” Philip said. “It’s a lovely place. I’m sure you will love it there.”  
“Will I get to go outside?” Alfred asked, only to be confused when Bernice chuckled.   
“Of course, lad.” Bernice said. “That’s where most of the training is, and you are going to be doing lots of it.”  
“Like a Squire?” Alfred asked, excited. The knights in the stories would start off as squies, students to noble knights who would teach them everything. The pathway to Knighthood was long and arduous, but once he was fully recovered, he would love to walk it.   
“Well, No. Like an Executioner.” Bernice said, confused. Philip jumped in.   
“Well, you will train to become an executioner-do you need help getting the blood off?” He asked, pulling out a canteen and using the water to wet his own handkerchief. “I suppose the Vicar spilled a bit during communion.”  
Alfred tried to protest before Philip began gently wiping some of the blood off his face.  
“Actually, it was his baptism as a Blood Saint.” Amelia said. Philip froze mid wipe.  
“Blood Saint? I thought-”  
“Yes. He is going to be our Blood Saint.” A deep voice said above them. Philip looked up to see Logarius, his golden robes and heavy necklaces gleaming in the sun.  
“Ah, Master Logarius! Is the carriage ready?”  
“Indeed.” Logarius said. He looked down at Alfred, smiling.  
“Alfred, this is Philip, my protege and right hand.” He said, gesturing to the man.   
“Pleased to meet you.” Philip said, frowning at the soiled handkerchief.   
“And this is Bernice, my left hand.” Logarius continued, gesturing a skeletal hand at Bernice. She bowed.   
“Are you really going to take Alfred away?” Amelia protested. “He’s not really better yet, and he should study on how to be a Blood Saint first-”   
“Executioners have our own ways, seperate from that of the Church, my child.” Logarus said gently. “The Vicar has his own techniques, and I have mine.” Amelia frowned, looking down at her boots. Alfred’s heart twinged painfully to see his only friend looking so sad.   
“I’ll get to see her again, right?” He asked. Logarius had been kind and polite this whole time, surely he would not separate them so heartlessly?  
“Of course. But you will be very busy.” Logarius said gently. “You will train as an Executioner, despite having the position of a Blood Saint.”  
“I...I won’t have to give blood yet, right?” Alfred asked, worried. Logarius chuckled.   
“Of course you won’t. You still have growing to do, and you are far too young to have blood drawn.”  
“Tell that to the Choir!” Alfred said bitterly. “They drew my blood all the time!”  
“Well, to have blood drawn in larger amounts, that is.” Logarius corrected himself. “Follow me to the carriage-of course, you should bid your friend goodbye, first.”  
As the man swept off, the two executioners in tow, Alfred turned to Amelia, smiling. His heart and heart was swirling with emotions and excitement. However, his cheerful gaze was met with her dour looking face, making his own smile vanish.   
“So, this is goodbye, then.” Amelia said sadly.   
“Goodbye? No, don’t worry, we will see each other again.” Alfred promised, taking her hand. “I’m going to be an Executioner!”  
“Alfred, do you even know what that means?” Amelia asked, nervousness in her voice.   
Alfred frowned, furrowing his brow.   
“Well, it sounds quite heroic.” Alfred said. He had never read about Executioners before, but the golden robes and the friendliness of Philip and Bernice had him sold. The Church, other than Amelia, had been cold to him, but Logarius and his Executioners seemed as warm as the day’s sunlight.   
Amelia opened her mouth as if to explain, but shut it, smiling sadly.   
“I’m...I’m happy for you. Oh! Please take this. I wanted to give it to you the other day, before I was thrown out. It should still be good.”  
She handed him a wrapped up napkin.  
“It’s strudel. Ludwig made it! I’m sure you will like it-”  
“Alfred!” Bernice called distantly, waving him over to follow.  
Amelia gazed after the retreating figures of the Executioners, then looked back at Alfred, her face unreadable. She suddenly embraced him, squeezing him tightly.   
“I’ll miss you, Alfred!” She exclaimed, squeezing him tightly Alfred hugged her back, confused. Surely, they would meet again, so why all the dramatics?  
Alfred broke the hug, aware of the fact that Logarius, and his new destiny, was quickly leaving sight. He stared at Amelia for a moment, unsure of himself. He unwrapped the pastry and quickly popped it in his mouth, eyes widening at the flavor.   
“Itsdeliciousthankyouverymuch-goodbye!” He said, being taking off a trot.   
“Goodbye!” She called back. He turned back one last time, smiling.  
Amelia watched him go, sadness in her heart. That morning, she was sure that Alfred would be her companion in her studies. Now, she was certain that they may never see each other again.   
Oh, why did he have to go with the Executioners, and be so far away? Vicar Laurence put his hands on her shoulders comfortingly, having finally broken away from Micolash’s excited chattering.   
“Logarius will take good care of him. His men are well trained, well fed, and have better morale than most sects of the Church.” He said, trying to comfort her.   
“I wanted him to stay…” Amelia said sadly.   
“It’s for the good of the Church, Amelia. We have to make sacrifices.” The Vicar said firmly, watching them go.  
\---  
Bernice climbed up top on the Carriage. Alfred stared in wonder at the horses. He had only seen pictures of the creatures! In person, they were larger than expected, and actually quite frightening. He shied away from the beasts, trying to catch his breath from the sudden exertion until Philip placed a reassuring hand on his back, guiding him to the door.  
Philip helped him into the carriage, and somehow, Logarius was able to fit his massively long body into the seat across from the both.  
Alfred gave a small yelp as the carriage started moving, unused to the sensation.   
“Master Logarius, I believed that Alfred was our newest recruit?” Philip said, breaking the silence.   
“He is to be our Blood Saint when he is older.” Logarius said, nodding at the boy.   
“I see.” Philip said, sounding uncomfortable. Alfred wondered why. He gazed out the window of the carriage, marveling at the scenery that whizzed past.  
“Would you like to hear about our glorious mission, Alfred?” Logarious asked.  
“Would I?” The boy perked up. Logarius chuckled.  
“I was told you were very ill. I am glad such difficulties did not dampen your spirits.” Logarius stroked his beard. “Now, where to begin. The history of the Executioners starts with a terrible betrayal.”  
Alfred leaned in, listening intently as he continued.   
“When the Scholars of Bergynwerth breached the Pthumerian Catacombs, they found Oedon’s holy blood. A blood that my people were gifted with, long, long ago, before we lost the favor of the Gods. The brave scholars entered the tombs, freeing the few of us sane Pthumerians that had been trapped below ground in the catacombs when the empire fell. The Sacred blood is a holy gift, but some of it was never to be used. It was a special type of the blood that was the downfall of our civilization.” A fire was lit under Logarius’s bushy brows. Philip turned away, gazing intently out the window.  
“A scholar committed a great heresy in the deepest part of the tombs, stealing blood that had been woefully corrupted, a derivative of Oedon’s own, warped by tragedy.” His skeletal hands clutched the sides of the seat, pale knuckles going white.  
“What happened then?” Alfred asked, enraptured.  
“The scholar fled from justice, carrying the corrupted blood. He defected to a decadent old noble family, once vassals of the Pthumerian royals, who had grown powerful in their absence. Greedy for more power, they partook in the corrupted blood, uncaring of the great heresy they were committing. Empowered by vile blood, the nobles of Cainhurst declared themselves royals, Duke Cain declaring himself king of the lands of Hemwick and beyond.”  
“He brutally taxes the lands, building up his own coffers while taking money and resources away from those who have nothing to spare.” Philip said, still gazing out the window.  
“In addition to his wicked acts of blood heresy.” Logarius rumbled.  
“King Cain rules badly. He cares not for the lands under his thumb. Imagine, an everlasting, immortal tyrant, with his decadent wife and daughter, ruling forever.” Philip said. Alfred listened, wide eyed. An evil king, a court of wicked, decadent royals, basking in evil blood. It was just like something out of a story, but it was all true, and he was now in the midst of it!  
“This is a mission of faith and justice.” Logarius reprimanded Philip. “Not for secular crimes. If King Cain and Queen Lilitha are allowed to continue their ways, the goodness of the Church’s blood healing will be eroded by their evil. So, we continue on our radiant crusade.”  
“We have had much success so far. The Vilebloods fear to leave the walls of Castle Cainhurst. Each time one of the criminals dare to leave the castle, one of our heroic executioners hunts them down quickly, completely destroying them before they can spread their corruption.”  
“Do you wear armor?” Alfred asked, excited. Philip looked at him, chuckling.  
“No, I’m afraid the time for armor is over. It’s best to wear holy robes, allowing one to dodge away from bullets. The Vilebloods are skilled marksmen.” Philip explained.   
“Where there is a Vileblood, the foul Bloodlickers are not far behind, and even the best armor will not shield one against the ravenous jaws and claws of a beast.” Logarous said, his tone grave.  
“Bloodlickers?” Alfred asked, worriedly. Nothing good could be called a “Blood Licker”.   
“The Corrupted Blood causes some of those who partake in it’s wickedness to transform into monsters. The victims wither, elongate, and grow shriveled, their tongues lengthening several feet. Craving for blood, they crawl about on all fours, searching for fresh prey to-” Logarius started before Philip drew a finger across his throat, jerking his head towards a very terrified and pale Alfred. Logarius coughed, relenting.   
“Well, they do very, very terrible things in the pursuit of blood. Nothing a young lad like yourself should hear about until you are older, yes? Anyway, we will be joining forces with the Hunters, as for now, it seems that Vilebloods and this new beastly threat go hand in hand.”   
Steeling himself, Alfred put on a brave face.   
“Will I get to battle these wicked creatures when I’m older?”  
Philip looked at Logarius, who smiled. “I’m afraid not, my boy. You will have a much more important role, providing blood to heal your brothers and sisters, strengthening them in their battle against evil.”  
“You will still get to train with us, and learn our ways.” Philip said, shooting Logaius a look, unseen by Alfred. The Pthumerian pressed his lips in a thin line.   
“As a blood saint, he should have different duties, Philip.” Logarius said as Philip continued anyway.  
“It will help you get your strength back after being ill for so long. There’s some young recruits only a few years older than you, as I mentioned before. You’ll make lots of friends.” Alfred looked up at Logarius, his eyes shining with excitement. Logarius sighed.  
“As if you aren’t only a few years older than the boy yourself. Acting like you run the place at only fifteen.” Logarius said, shaking his head with a smile. Alfred looked wide eyed at Philip. To him, compared to himself and Amelia, Philip seemed so grown up and mature!   
“You may train with the others. Quite unfair, Philip, putting words in my mouth.”  
“I have no idea what you mean, sir.” Philip responded, smiling smugly.  
\---   
The carriage ride became far more bumpy and turbulent as they neared the forest. The sun had begun to set behind the trees, flashing between the trunks to blind Alfred every time he peaked out the window. Philip rested against the back of the seat, eyes closed, the sun glinting off his shaved head whilst Logarius stared out the window, seemingly unbothered by the flashes of light.   
“We should arrive soon. Tell me, are you excited to join our mission?” Logarius asked, keeping his voice low so not to disturb Philip.”  
“Yes! Very much so!” Alfred exclaimed, before covering his mouth, realizing he had spoken so loudly in his excitement. Logarius chuckled.   
“I cannot wait to tell Amelia about all this!” Alfred whispered. The Pthumerian’s brows furrowed, frowning behind his beard, but he remained silent.   
The carriage slowed as the sun finally set, leaving behind a thin orange line on the horizon beneath the dark blue sky above, illuminating the ancient trees.   
“We’re here.” Bernice called out, waking Philip from his slumber. The man stretched tiredly, looking up at Logarius.   
“Why are we not stationed closer to the Church, again?” He asked, opening the door to let Alfred hop out to greet Bernice.   
“Because I cannot stand that bastard Vicar.” Logarius muttered, beginning the slow process of extracting a Pthmerian sized body out of a human size carriage.  
“You should not say such things about the Vicar, sir.” Philip said, holding the door open. Logarius smiled as he overheard the boy’s excited chattering to Bernice.   
“He’s just an intermediary between us and the gods. He’s not the great ones, just another one of us mortals, attempting to grasp at the heavens. As well as the fact he holds his position as the one to free us Pthumerians above our heads.” Logarius stood upright with a loud crack. Philip winced.  
“It’s difficult to hold anything above your head, sir. Perhaps we should look into finding a carriage with a higher roof?”   
“I won’t waste necessary funding on mere comfort for myself.” Logarius replied, stopping at the gates. Philip turned back to see Bernice and the boy standing by the horses, Bernice attempting to coax a shy and possibly rightfully fearful Alfred to give one of the two beasts a treat, starting with the friendlier, chestnut colored one.  
“Are you certain they won’t bite me?” Alfred asked. Bernice grinned, patting one of the horse’s noses. The horse huffed softly, uninterested in the nervous child before it.  
“It won’t. Just hold out the carrot.” Bernice said, guiding his hand towards the horse’s mouth, carrot first. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, before opening one just to see.   
The horse lowered its brown muzzle to the carrot. It pulled its black lips back to reveal massive, blocky white teeth before gripping the carrot. Alfred yanked away his hand, letting go of the carrot as if it had burned him. He jumped back, letting the horse enjoy its snack. Bernice laughed as she fed the other horse, a tempermental grey, its own treat.   
“Sweetroll won’t bite you, but Dusty will.” She said, watching the boy jump back fearfully again.  
“Alright, that’s enough scaring the lad.” Philip said, unable to refrain from grinning himself. He glanced back to see Master Logarius staring away from the scene through the curving wrought iron gates, towards the workshop. He pushed it open with a smooth motion, gesturing for Philip and Alfred to follow.  
“Philip will show you around. Of course, a change of clothes and a bath will be in order.” Logarius said as they walked up the steps. Alfred touched his face unconsciously, feeling the powdery dried blood still remaining. In all the excitement, he had totally forgotten he was covered in sticky, dried blood!   
The workshop was more of a large, stately house. The steps that lead up the hill it was situated on were old and worn, flanked by flowering white plants. A tower completed the gothic, pointy skyline of the roof, the eaves home to several snarling gargoyles.  
The windows were lit, and as Alfred drew close, he could make out several faces peering down at them both. The moment Logarius looked up, the watchers fled from the window, shutting the curtains.   
“They are just excited to meet you, that’s all.” Philip said, patting his shoulder. Alfred looked up at him in wonder. So many people, excited to meet him? Unthinkable. The ceremony was populated only out of formality. What had he done that was exciting?  
“Why would they want to see me?” Alfred asked. Logarius chuckled, ahead of him.   
“They wish to meet the newest member of their family, that’s why.” He said, stepping over the threshold, which was emblazoned with a triangle shape with a sleepy, yet watchful eye in the center, intersected by rays,  
The next few hours were a blur for Alfred. He had been immediately swarmed by blue robed Executioners the moment he entered the Workshop, the youngest there surrounding him first.   
“‘You ready to crack some vileblood skulls?”  
“Alright! I’m not the youngest anymore!”  
“Woah, is that blood? Hardcore!”  
Logarius shooed them away with a wave of his long arm. Several of the older Executioners, some around Philip and Bernice’s age began to herd the gaggle of novices out of the room.  
“Give the boy some space. Due to special circumstances, he will be in the single room tonight.” The Pthumerian announced, ducking to avoid the chandelier that hung on ceiling in the center of the room.  
“Awh, I wanted a bunkmate!”  
“Not fair, we have to listen to Tonio snore!”  
“I don’t snore!”  
“Yes you do!”  
Logarius sighed as the dozen novices were finally led out.  
“It’s a lively place. Each class takes on twelve novices, around the age of fourteen every five years. That was the third class. Bernice and Philip were in the first, the oldest and youngest class members, respectively. How old are you, child?” He asked, looking down at Alfred.  
“I...I don’t know.” he said, worrying at the hem of his sleeve. Philip frowned, concerned.   
“How do you not know?” He asked, before being silenced by Logarius.   
“The doctors said I was so feverish, that I forgot almost everything.” Alfred mumbled, picking a thread loose. “From how sick I was, I mean.”  
Philp could heard Logarius’s teeth starting to grind.   
“Philip, show the boy where to get clean.” Logarius said with eerie calmness. “Then come back to see me, please.”  
\---  
Philip entered the Master’s study, already bracing himself for the tidal wave of righteous fury. The Pthumerian sat at his massive desk, scribbling furiously.   
Philip sat in one of the human sized chairs provided, glancing over the ancient tapestries on the high walls, and the massive, ornately decorated wheel that sat beside the desk. The Logarius wheel prototype was Pthumerian sized, but he had never seen Logarius wield it, instead favoring a massive scythe and mysterious blood magic.  
“So. Laurence has not only given me a mere child for a Blood Saint, but a sickly one with amnesia. What game is he playing?” The Pthumerian hissed, stabbing the paper with his quill.  
“Do you dislike him?” Philip asked, concerned. Logarius barked a harsh laugh.   
“Dislike him? Not at all. The boy is ridiculously likable. Under any other circumstances, I would have loved to train him as an executioner. He’s bright, friendly, and polite. Protege material, but of course, your position is not in any danger.”  
“I never felt threatened, sir.” Philip said.  
“What are we to do? Wait? Is this a trick, some kind of trap?” Logarius crumpled the paper in his spidery hands, tossing it to the side.  
“Laurence would not saint someone who could pass their sickness through blood, would he? Why one so young? Surely, they could have spared another.” The Pthumerian looked sharply at Philip.  
“Laurence wishes to sicken us all. He has the Vilebloods right where he wants them. He wishes to use our deaths as a bargaining tool with Cainhurst.” He growled.   
“I doubt that. There was only a lack of Blood Saints, and carelessness on the Vicar’s behalf.” Philip said. He had become adept at calming his mentor when the man went into paranoid moods. “Besides, the Vicar hates the Vilebloods as well. He would not turn on us like that.”   
“Of course. Mere incompetence from the Vicar, as expected.” Logarius sat back in the seat, his rage disappearing as quickly as it had come. The atmosphere of the room instantly calmed.  
“Thank you, Philip.” Logarius heaved a tired sigh, staring up at the wood paneled ceiling as he continued. “Let's make the best of the situation. Alfred is not a viable blood saint yet, but he will be, and he’s a good lad. We will let him train with the rest of the third class, as you wished.”  
Philip smiled.   
“He will be able to make friends, and become a true executioner.”  
Logarous steepled his long fingers, looking down at Philip.   
“As a Blood Saint, he cannot be an Executioner. We meet Corruption head on. He will only have his blood spoilt.”  
“You saw how eager he was in the carriage, Sir. Let him be with the others, for the time before stepping firmly into the duties of a saint.”   
\---  
The room was small but tidy. The ceilings were edged with elegant plaster moldings, and the floor was a rich, dark wood that did not squeak when trodden upon. The best part of all was that the blankets were thick and woolen. Alfred had wrapped himself in a cocoon, enjoying the softness of the blankets and the new robes he had been given, despite them being a tad too big.  
Philip had guided him around the place, showing the workshop, the gleaming hunting tools, the barracks, the library, something that had greatly excited the boy, seeing so many stacked books.   
Everyone who had greeted him had been so kind, congratulating him on joining the Executioners and helping show him around. The communal dinner had the best meal that Alfred could remember, far better then eating tastelessly prepared hospital food alone. It had named meat, vegetables that were not a mysterious mash, and bread, actual bread! It was as if he had fallen into one of his beloved novels, into a feast where heros congregated to eat and enjoy each other’s company.   
He smiled as he drifted into sleep. He was no longer cooped up in a miserable room, unable to go outside to speak with others, and the threats of needles, medications, and cruel Choir members was far away. Before he finally drifted off, he opened his fist to look at Amelia’s handkerchief. While getting ready for the bath, he had found it stuffed into his pocket, and had held it close ever since. It was a lovely white bit of cloth, embroidered with a large A, only slightly marred by the pink stains from his attempt to clean off the blood earlier.  
“I’ll see you again soon. I’ll tell you everything!” He whispered, before drifting off.

\---Present Day---  
Quincy stumbled through the woods, blinded by his own thoughts. That thing on the lake, that monster, what was it? He had bid Alfred goodbye, only to find a key to the balcony overlooking the lake. Desperate for any clue to end the nightmare he had been thrust into, Quincy had stepped out of musty, abandoned Bergynwerth to find that the place was not completely devoid of life after he and Alfred cut through the twisted flies, mad scholars, and celestial monsters.  
The melted, pale corpse of a man rocked back and forth on an oversized rocking chair, muttering soundlessly. His chin and lips gleamed with an unnatural, swollen and pockmarked sheen, the only features visible under his bugeyed, ornate blindfold. Fungus-like growths sprouted from his collar and the back of his skull, undulating in the pale moonlight. As Quincy carefully approached the figure, his boots clicking on the old stone balcony, a raspy groan emanated from the rocking corpse.   
“Ahhhh…ahhh.” It rasped, pointing a white robed arm towards the lake, angling a decorated golden scepter, topped with artificial sprouting branches and jeweled leaves. It was too beautiful of an object to be clutched in the hand of such a disgusting creature.   
“Are you in need of any help there, sir?” Quincy tried, his usual jovial voice shaking as he spoke.   
“Ahhh...ah…” Was all the man said in response, desperately pointing his scepter, tightly clutched in a swollen, bleached hand. Up close, Quincy realized the man looked like a drowned corpse, swollen and paled. A hideous scent emanated from the wheezing, pointing body, making Quincy cough. It was reminiscent of the mummified man in the guard tower, a dead man directing him forward.   
Curiosity piqued by the morbid sight, Quincy stepped forward. He peered over the stone landing into the lake, seeing the swirling fog lit by the swollen moon in the cloudy sky above. He turned back to see the corpse once again frantically pointing his staff.  
“I ain’t about to drown myself too, pal.” Quincy said, not expecting a reply as he gazed down at the lake. The depths of the water below seemed to dance before his eyes. The fog was clearing, revealing a beautiful, otherworldly lake below. The stars in the sky, covered by clouds above, shone in the lake’s water, embraced by swirling clouds of nebula, brilliant purples, blues, and magenta. It was as if the Cosmos had found a new home in the lake’s waters.  
Take a step forward.  
Quincy leaned farther, entranced. The stars floated in the water, nearly blinding him with their brilliance. More than anything, Quincy wanted to join them.  
You wish for it, too? Ascension?  
The cosmos churned below, shining beautifully.  
It’s a wonderful feeling. To become so full of knowledge, to become so empty.   
Stars danced in his vision. He could hear an ethereal humming, a gentle rhythm, a perfect, ancient beat.   
Plip, plop. Plip. plop.   
Won’t you join us? Hear it, the ocean’s song, the lullaby of the gods?  
Quincy took a step forward, and plunged into the lake. He screamed, his mind having just then returned from the seductive call.  
\---  
Branches caught at Quincy’s clothing as he continued to run . He had completely lost control back then, entranced by the siren song. When he had plunged forwards, he had braced himself, expecting to hit water hard, to be drowned, but instead he had landed, catlike, on the lake’s surface as if it was a giant glassy sheet.  
There, in the fog, he had seen it.   
Quincy had found notes about a Berygenwerth spider, but nothing about this thing was even vaguely spiderlike. It’s head was massive and lumpy, pitted with holes. A tiny circular mouth opened and closed uselessly, ringed with irregular teeth. The lumpy, heavy head was attached to a body like a swollen caterpillar, lumpy and irregular, the topside covered in moss and gleaming white flowers, supported by countless scuttling legs. Several long tails sprouted from it’s rear, wagging slowly. Tiny, empty eyes gleamed from the many pits in the monster’s skull.   
What emotion overtook him, fear, rage, disgust at the fact such a thing existed, Quincy could not say. He was a Hunter now, and no doubt such a monster had to do with the beasts, the living waxwork corpse on the landing, the endless night. So he had sprung forward, slashing at the monster with his axe.   
The monster spawned. Hideous, smaller versions of it appeared, scuttling, speedy creatures with the heads of their repulsive mother surrounded him.   
It had taken many tries, but a Hunter got as many chances as they could stand. Finally, the monster collapsed under his rain of blows, vanishing along with it’s hideous progeny. Quincy looked to the sky in triumph. Would the night end now? He had followed all the clues. A new day would dawn, he would be able to go home to his family and leave this terrible, backwards place behind. His mysterious, painful disease had been cured, he had faced evil and come out on top, having his own adventure, harrowing as it was.   
He would miss Alfred of course, The Doll, too, and the mysterious Hunter, Eileen, but he treasured having met them both.   
All of Quincy’s hopeful thoughts vanished the second he looked upwards. The moon had not vanished. It had not set.   
It had become more massive, reddened, as if dyed in the blood of the monster he had just slain. A wretched sob reached his ears. He turned to see a woman in a white wedding dress, stained with blood, far out on the lake. She removed her veil, and looked back at him with black, sunken eyes set in a corpse-like face, her hands locked in chains.   
\---  
How Quincy had ended up back in the woods was a mystery. After meeting the corpse-woman’s gaze he had run, and now here he was, his ragged lungs on fire as he thrashed through the brush and trees. Finally, unable to take another step, he collapsed on the grass, wheezing. After laying face down in the dirt, the grass tickling his face, he rolled over, meeting the massive, red moon above.  
“I’ve made a right mess of things.” Quincy spoke aloud, breathing hard. He glared at the moon.  
“Can’t you just set? Day has to come after night. It’s the natural order of things!” He groaned, straightening his hat on his head.   
“Oh, gods. Look at me. Laying in the dirt, talking to the damn moon as if the thing can hear me.” He stood up shakily, brushing himself off and taking a look around.   
A once stately mansion lay behind him, it’s wrought iron gates destroyed, gardens overgrown. Ivy crawled up the sides. The gargoyles that had once sat on the eaves were destroyed and headless, their faces laying cracked and abandoned in the yard, and the white flowers, much like those in the dream, had gone feral and dotted the landscape without any rhyme or reason, even going so far as to sprout in the house’s gutters. A collapsed tower lay in the yard, rotting in the dirt.   
For a brief moment, as Quincy looked up at the last intact window on the top floor, he thought he saw it alight for a brief moment, before dimming again. In front of all of it was a rotting carriage wheel, it’s remaining spokes oddly gilded.  
Quincy left it behind, trying to find his way back to Yharnam, or a lamp, or anything as he continued his fearful journey through the woods. He had no time to poke around an ancient, possibly haunted old house, completely unaware of the importance that it once held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we leave Amelia and Laurence behind and FINALLY get to the Executioners. Logarius is hard to write, you have to balance out the genocidal cult leader with him being decent enough to his men that he would inspire lifelong love and devotion, in Alfred at least. He still sucks, but he takes good care of his vampire murdering cult, at least. His motivations should become more clear soon, as well. Hint: what is the source of the Vileblood's blood? or should I say, WHO?   
> Also, Logarius is literally a fossil that Laurence dug up, and Laurence will NEVER let it go. Oh you want a REAL blood saint? Well if it wasn't for me, you'd still be below ground. Oh you want more funding? I freed you from your coffin, corpse boy! Your kingdom is dead! Nyah nya nah nah nah!  
> I swear we will get some Hunter/Alfred in the next chapter.  
> Oh yeah, this is the second time I've posted a 100% serious fic on April fools day. Hmm. I think my first fic ever was posted on April fools a year ago? Time flies. Anyway enjoy, stay inside, and please wash your hands, Covid-19 is no joke.


	5. Bloodletting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief, non descriptive needle content  
> \---  
> The Executioners recieve word of Vicar Laurence crimes, and Alfred reflects on his broken promise to Amelia. No longer a sickly child, Alfred begins to take on the duties of a Blood Saint, despite desperately wishing to be an Executioner.  
> In the present, Quincy goes to Alfred for comfort after his encounter with the Arcane.

_“Oedon has spoken to me. I am chosen to bear a new being, a child of the gods.” The Queen said, her dark eyes shining with joy. She smiled down at his kneeling form, her white dress shining in the cold moonlight._

_“A new era of prosperity will dawn for our faltering kingdom. We will be gifted with Oedon’s own blood, his formless essence! Those who bear it shall be Oedon and mine own spiritual kin. Great Oedon has promised that I shall have the greatest gift of all, the blood that will grant everlasting life. Pthumeria shall never fall!”_

\--- 

“Come on Philip, I can take it! Just spar with me!”

Philip chuckled as Alfred got into a pugilistic stance, fists raised with a wide smile. Years had passed since the boy had come to the Executioners workshop, and Alfred had become one of the most devoted and earnest students. Over the last few years, he had shot up about two feet, threatening to become taller than Philip, something Philip was sure to happen rather soon at the rate the boy grew. Any trace of past illness or shyness had vanished completely since the time he had first arrived.

Despite being at least a year younger than the third class, Alfred had fit in well, making friends and eagerly befriending those in the upper classes. It was easy for Alfred to make friends among the executioners, with a kind, boyish face and a sunny disposition. 

Philip had become his best friend, despite the gap of years between them. Philip saw Alfred as a younger brother to support and protect, an opinion shared by most of the upperclassmen, but he was the one Alfred had come to trust the most, so having the boy trying to goad him into play fighting on the Workshop’s lawn was not an unfamiliar sight.

Philip was the one who Alfred would come to first about any problems or joys, excitedly showing him the first hint of stubble on his face or venting miserably when refused an Executioner’s robe once again, instead given a white Monk’s robe due to his position. 

“That’s not really fair, is it? I’ll be in trouble if I punch out the Blood Saint.” Philip said, smiling as he leaned back against the shaded tree. Alfred frowned, but refused to break out of his stance. 

“You’ll have to hit me first. I doubt you can! I am far too fast!”

“Perhaps fast in being first to dinner, but not in dodging punches. Do not forget I’m older, and have more experience in the Executioner’s traditional hand to hand. ”

“I have the advantage of youth! Have at me, old man!” Alfred bragged, dodging an imagined blow.

“Old man? I’m not even twenty-three yet!” Philip laughed. 

“And yet here you are, refusing to fight me!” Alfred exclaimed, practically dancing in place with excitement. “Are you scared I’ll trounce you like I did to Nathan?”

“Nathan gave up after you got one hit in!” Philip laughed. “Alright, alright. Don’t make it a big deal if any of my blows connect.” Philp said, pushing himself off the oak.

The two boys carefully aligned themselves on the grassy lawn, circling each other, Alfred grinning, Philp serious. As expected, Alfred charged first, woefully telegraphing his planned blow. Philip smiled. The boy probably thought he had the upper hand in rapidly attacking. 

Philip carefully dodged back, aiming a punch of his own for Alfred’s cheek. Nothing that would cause much damage, a love tap, really. He wanted his brother to learn that he needed to be more careful in battle.

Of course Alfred immediately charged again, turning and accidently ramming his face nose first into Philip’s fist as he aimed the blow. Philip looked down in horror as Alfred fell to the dirt, clutching his bloody nose. 

“Besht out of tree, den.” Alfred said cheerfully, trying to stem the blood flow on his white sleeve. Philip sighed, shaking his head. 

“Master Logarius is going to kill me. Let's get you to the Doc.”

\---

“We did not even have hand to hand training today, boy. How did you manage to get hurt?” Doctor Camilla groaned. Philip opened his mouth to explain before Alfred cut him off from his position on the wooden examination table. 

“I asked Philip to spar for practice. It’s my fault I got hurt.” He explained, holding cotton to his nostrils. The doctor sighed tiredly, pinching the ridge of her crooked, Yharnamite nose. 

“Alfred, you know you are not to become an Executioner. A Blood Saint has no need to learn combat.” 

“But Doctor Camilla,-” Alfred started. Philip winced, looking away. Philip regretted convincing Logarius to allow Alfred to train as if he was to become an Executioner. The poor boy now desired to be an Executioner more than anything in the world, something he could never achieve.

“There is no arguing this. You were blessed with Sainted Blood, and you are to share your gift with others. Next month, you will begin giving Blood Ministrations for the first time.”

Alfred looked down at his scuffed boots sadly. Philip’s heart twinged.

“It’s a very important duty. You will be helping the Church and the Executioners greatly.” Doctor Camilla added. Alfred slid off the table defeatedly. 

“I will get to continue my studies and training, yes?” he asked tentatively. The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Will you even have time?” She said, incredulously. Alfred hung his head, moving to exit the clinic. 

“One last thing, Alfred.” The boy looked back at her. 

“Don’t waste your sacred blood on sparring. There are far more important things for it then to dribble down your face after being socked one” Camilla said coldly. Ashamed, Alfred sprinted out the door.

Philip nodded to the doctor, following his friend. They walked along the wood panelled hallway in silence, the grey light from the windows casting weak shadows. 

“Have I been lax in my studies, Philip?” Alfred asked, breaking the silence. Philip shook his head. 

“Alfred, it’s not that.” 

“I understand the importance of my position, but I cannot just do nothing while the Vilebloods still exist!” He exclaimed. “Their wickedness must be stopped!”

“You won’t be doing nothing. You will be providing healing blood.” Philip reassured. Alfred pursed his lips, looking away. Philip watched as the boy pretended to be very interested in the red smudge on his sleeve. 

“No need to pout.”

“I am hardly pouting!”

“Yes you are.”

“I am not!” Alfred said, with finality, turning to Philip with which was definitely a pout. Inspiration suddenly flashed in his eyes. 

“Perhaps I can talk to Master Logarius. Sure, he would understand my determination!” He said, looking at Philip hopefully. 

“I don’t know…” Philip said slowly as Alfred continued blithely. 

“He congratulated me when we first tried the Holy Wheels. He said I was a natural at it! Before that, I was only a natural blonde, but now I’m a natural at the Logarius wheel, too!”

“As opposed to an unnatural one…?” Philip asked, confused by Alfred’s train of thought and speech’s usual slow derailment. His brother’s mind seemed to be an ocean of water with only a pinhole to drain it at times.

“Anyway, he knows I’m skilled, and determined, am I not?”

“Well, yes, you have enthusiasm, and talent.” Philip conceded. 

“So surely, my sainted blood is only a bonus to being a talented and necessary executioner, yes? So I can still fight evil head on?” Alfred asked. Philip frowned uncomfortably. 

“Alfred. Contact with a vileblood will destroy your holy blood.” Philip said slowly. As expected, his brother’s face immediately fell. 

“Surely that cannot be the case?”

“Logarius said so himself.” Philip said.

“...That cannot be right. As long as I do not ingest their rotten blood, surely I can be an Executioner and blood saint.” Alfred argued, desperation coming into his voice. “I’ll just be careful, yes? The holy Ardeo blocks the face! Master Logarius would not make such a mistake.”

Philip sighed, defeated. “You can ask him yourself when he returns from Cathedral Ward.” Alfred perked up. 

“Oh! It’s been five years, Philip! We will be getting a new class of Executioners soon!”

“You are just happy that you won’t be the youngest anymore.” Philip chuckled, elbowing Alfred in the ribs. 

“Shame on you, brother! Breaking my nose, now attacking me in broad daylight!” Alfred gasped in fake shock. 

“Breaking your nose? Hah! Besides, it’s hardly my fault, that beak is unavoidable!”

“Take that back, scoundrel!” 

\---

Unaware of Philip and Alfred’s youthful shenanigans, Logarius swept into the Workshop like a stormcloud, robes billowing as he angrily swept down the hall.

“Dunno what we are going to tell them.” Bernice said, following the brooding Pthumerian like a fish in a boat’s wake. Her square jaw was set in a similarly grim expression, and she wished desperately that Philip, instead of herself, had accompanied Logarius on the trip to the Cathedral Ward this time.

“Laurence, you bloody fool. What were you thinking?” Logarius hissed under his breath.

Bernice was certain that it was just a simple visit for budget or Logarius traveling there due to some request for some foolish ceremony of Laurence’s. What she had hoped would be a nice break from the woods to flirt with the Cathedral’s nuns and impress some of the new Hunters with her combat talent had instead turned into a real mess of things.

“Again, Master, what should we tell the others? How do you explain the damn Vicar, head of the Church, torched Old Yharnam, a place several of the lads ‘n lasses are from, had some of the hunters murder any folks that rushed out of the flames, then turned into a fuckin’ beast himself! How are we going to have a Fourth class now?”

“Like that, I suppose.” Logarius rumbled. “With less colorful language, Bernice. This is not a Hemwick Alehouse. I will consider the possibility of posponing the induction of a Fourth Class.” Bernice grunted, rolling her eyes the moment Logarius turned back. 

“It is a fortune that the other two Executioners from Old Yharnam are absent. I will speak with the boy from old Yharnam in private. Colin will need support.” Bernice frowned. She was unsure if Logarius would be the best to comfort a grieving adolescent after he delivered the news. Colin was the second youngest in the third class, a cheerful, loyal boy. 

“Why the hell did he do it, Master? There were beasts appearing around old Yharnam, yeah, but gods! Burning down part of the city and murdering good, blood fearing folks who probably were not even infected! Hunters hunt beasts, not humans!”

“Laurence was a fool. His skull will remain in the Cathedral as a warning to all those who worship there that the blood is to be respected, and feared. The beasts need to be cut down at the source, and the source is certainly Cainhurst.” 

“Did Ludwig have a part in it?” Bernice asked. Logarius paused. 

“Ludwig vanished whilst hunting Beasts with his Holy Blades near Yhar’gul a moon before.”

“Master-do you think-” Bernice started. Everyone knew that Mensis had turned to kidnapping. It was an open secret, one that was tolerated because their work was valuable for ascension. What the twisted, caged scholars did to their victims was unknown, but some experiment of theirs called for an excess of bodies. Bernice wished that Laurence had burned their Yhar’gul headquarters to the ground instead.

“Mensis would have to be stupid to take a man so important to the healing Church. He most likely fell in battle, or succumbed to the scourge himself.” Logarius snorted. “What a pity. Ludwig was a good man.”

“‘Suppose Amelia will lead the church now. What a gaffe! She’s practically still a girl herself!”

“It’s no matter. As long as we continue to receive the Church’s support, it does not matter who is at the helm.” Logarius said firmly. 

Both stopped when laughter was heard down the hall. Logarius and Bernice peered around the corner.

“Philip ‘n Alfred chasing each other about. Aren’t we supposed to be disciplined Holy warriors, Master?” Bernice said, scowling. Logarius turned to Bernice, shaking his head with a thin smile. 

“They are still boys. There is no class on Sundays, and both excel in studies and training. Let them have fun.”

“You’d scold them if they saw you, Master.” 

“Indeed I would.” Logarius drew himself back up. “I will announce the news at dinner. Keep a close eye on anyone from Yharnam in the next few days. Chances are there could be extended families that were hurt or killed in the catastrophe. They will need support from us all.”

\---

At dinner, Alfred had spent the whole meal trying to catch Logarius’s attention. Quite a difficult task usually, but as he sat next to Philip, who himself sat next to the Pthumerian, he should have the advantage of proximity. Philip nudged his leg under the table. 

“Stop that. He’s not going to talk to you at dinner.” He whispered.

“It’s worth a try, yes? Master Logarius speaks to us all during this time!” Alfred whispered back. 

“Just eat, you can try to bother him later.” Philip replied, shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth to show he was done talking. Bernice quirked a brow at him from the other side of the table.

“Bother! I never bother!” Alfred grumbled, going back to his food. Most of the first class of executioners were absent, sent off to investigate stories of Vileblood Activity, some stationed around Hemwick castle to assure that the Cainhurst Knights and Nobility were staying inside their wretched castle. The table, able to sit nearly four dozen due to its length, was only slightly over halfway full. It would have made sense to Alfred for them to have several tables instead of one, but Logarius most certainly had a reason for it.

Alfred glanced back up at Logarius, certain that Philip was not watching. The Pthumerian’s face was gloomier than usual, his dark eyes and gaunt face darkly shaded by his heavy brow. He looked back down at his plate, realizing that maybe this was not the best time to speak to the Master.

Logarius rose from his seat with a rustle of golden robes and a clink of pendants, his face lined with concern. Every head immediately turned to face him, Alfred and Philip stopping eating mid chew.

“I am certain that many of you are excited for the induction of the next Class of Executioners.”

An excited chatter rose over the table. Logarius pursed his lips, the expression of a man deeply burdened with bad news.

“I am afraid I will disappoint. The Fourth class will be postponed due to dire circumstances in Yharnam.”

A disappointed groan emerged from the seated Executioners.

“It would be difficult in the wake of chaos in the Church at the moment.” Logarius paused, as if to give his students time to prepare.

“Vicar Laurence is Dead.”

A soft murmur rose between the Executioners gathered. Alfred lowered his fork. Vicar Laurence had been old when he had met him, his face lined and his hair receding, but the Vicar did not seem like he was within a few years of death. Philip’s brow was furrowed with concern.

“His chosen successor, Amelia, has already taken his place.”

Alfred started at the name. Amelia! Memories flooded back to him at the sound of the name. He had promised that he would go back to see her almost five years ago, and he had forgotten! Would she even recognize him now? He was no longer the sickly, small for his age child he had been. He had grown, filled out, trained as an Executioner. 

Alfred tried to imagine what Amelia would look like now. She had been slightly taller than him, the runt he was back then, but now he was five foot ten. He wondered if she would still have the one inch advantage.

Had she been waiting to see him again all these years? He stared intently at the remaining food on his plate, his ears with pink from shame. Why did he forget?

Logarius continued. 

“I would like to see Colin after the meal, please.” Alfred slumped. Well, there was certainly no way he would be able to speak to Logarius now. He glanced at Colin down the table, wondering what he did to get Logarius attention. The boy looked somewhere between excited and terrified. A private audience with master Logarius was something to be envied-or feared.

\---

News traveled fast among the Executioners, and soon the events that Logarius had glossed over were pieced together over the next few days.

Old Yharnam had been set ablaze by Vicar Laurence! The reason, often repeated in letters from the families of the Executioners who still wrote home, was that Old Yharnam was full of Beasts, and there was nothing to be done other than destroy that district of the city. 

But soon, more disturbing details emerged. 

The Hunters, once noble warriors organized by Old Gherman and Ludwig, had been ordered by Laurence to stand outside Old Yharnam to kill any survivors fleeing the flames! Stories ranged from reassurance that some survivors had been able to escape to chilling reports of none being left alive or spared. 

The biggest mystery was how the Vicar had died. Some claimed that he had been there when Old Yharnam was lit on fire, a few claiming he had lit the flame himself, only to be consumed by it in an act of divine retribution. There were tales that an old Yharnamite killed him in revenge before being slain by a hunter himself.

The most outlandish rumor was that the Vicar had turned into a Beast himself, and was dispatched by the Hunters upon returning to the Cathedral. The younger Executioners in the third class had hounded Bernice for more information, as they knew she had left to Yharnam with Logarius, only to be met with stony silence. 

Finally, the rumor was proven true. The skull of a Beast was displayed in the Cathedral of the Church as Vicar Amelia gave her first sermon on the danger of the Blood. Communion was given with a warning. 

“Let us partake in Communion, but fear the frailty of man, and know ye, for the skull is that of the First Vicar.”

The news that Beasts were once humans may have gravely shaken the church, but it did not surprise any Executioner. Vilebloods were once human as well. The fact that the Vicar, the founder of the Healing church could succumb, however, came as a shock.

After hearing about the destruction of Old Yharnam, the Executioners had rallied around Collin. The poor boy had lost his family and his home, but he still had family in the Executioners.

Alfred had spent many nights after thinking about what Amelia. Any news and letters said that she had taken over as a Vicar, but a member of the congregation would hardly know any personal details. 

Leaving the Executioner’s workshop was nearly impossible, something he had not realized as a child. It was far in the woods, and making the journey back to Yharnam on foot would be far too dangerous. 

Would it have been possible for him to write to her? No, he did not have her address. The Handkerchief he had as a momento had been lost to childish irresponsibility. As of now, the friendship that Alfred and Amelia had shared seemed impossible to repair.

\---

“Did you see the wreckage?” Philip asked. Bernice grunted, refusing to look away from the window. Spring rain fell gently outside, muffled by the quiet murmur of a nearby class of Executioners learning History from Logarius himself.  
“We did not leave the Ward, but we could still see the smoke rising from Old Yharnam.” Bernice said grimly.

“Gods. It’s all the boys want to talk about in the dormitories. Not around Colin, of course, but…” Philip sighed, standing next to her. The garden was beginning to bloom, the bushes under the window sprinkled with purple buds.

“The girls too.” Bernice responded. The two stood in silence, watching the rain fall. The trees wavered in the gentle wind, bright green leaves beginning to sprout from the branches. 

“It was evil, what the Vicar did.” Philip said, tracing the path of a raindrop down the pane.

Bernice only nodded.

“It does give me doubts.” Philip continued.

“Why?”

“Our mission is linked to the Church. If the Church is able to commit such evil-” Philip began, only to be silenced by Bernice’s icy look. 

“Speak to Master Logarius if you have doubts. Not I.”’ Bernice said sharply. “The Church lacks our guidance and vision. We keep evil contained in Cainhurst. We do not kill innocents without thought.”

“Of course.” Philip said softly. They returned to gazing out the window at the rain.

The unspoken question, ‘Will that always be so?’ hung in the air, turning in Philip’s mind.

\---

Alfred had tried to wait patiently to speak to Logarius. He knew that the man was very busy, and imposing his own problems on the man after the tragedy that had taken place in Old Yharnam seemed a selfish thing to do. There had been times where he had stood before the Master’s office door for a good while, trying desperately to summon the courage to knock.

An opportunity finally arose during a history class on a rainy day. Alfred nervously bounced his leg under the old wooden desk, attempting to listen to Logarius’s lecture. The Pthumerian’s stories of the past usually captivated him, but today he was far too anxious about trying to speak to Logarius.

Thankfully, Alfred was already familiar with the material that Logarius was going over. He had read the texts on the history of the Executioner’s many times. He could practically recite them by heart! Of course, he would be a dutiful student and take notes anyway. It was rare that Logarius had the time to give his Executioners a personal history lesson!

Logarius steadied the podium before him, crudely modified to be usable for a giant pthumerian.

“The Vilebloods, or the Cainhurst Royal family, came from the far west as part of the entourage of a Princess of the Sun, and her husband, a god of flame, so the legends state. The Vilebloods to be, already traitorous, defected from the Goddess’s party, and traveled to the Eastern Shore- to the land called Pthumeria.” Logarius paused, scanning the faces of his students. Seeing some confusion on his pupil’s faces, he sighed.

“What is Pthumeria called now?”

Alfred’s hand shot up. Logarius gave the rest of the class the courtesy of looking around.

“Alfred again, I suppose.” Logarius nodded to him.

“It is called Yharnam today, sir!” 

“Correct. Back then, The place you know as Yharnam was ruled by Pthumerians, much like myself. My people were blessed by the gods, and lived in a kingdom that rivaled that of the ancient dynasty of the Western Continent.”

“The Cainhurst Nobility were the first humans to arrive on the Continent, your own descendants coming much later from the Western Continent after the Smothering, where the world was briefly plunged into bitter darkness, but I am once again getting ahead of myself.” Logarius stroked his long beard, lost in thought.

“The Cainhurst Nobility allied themselves with the Pthumerian nobility, and were gifted with their own castle-Cainhurst, named after their first king, Cain. Each male ruler since has taken on the same name.” Logarius’s voice oozed contempt as he spoke. 

“Of course, the Pthumerian nobles found that they had made fickle allies. When Pthumeria fell into decline, Cainhurst found themselves at an advantage, and hastened their fall by turning their back on the Royal family, and aiding the rebellions that sought to dethrone the last Queen.” Logarious looked down at the students. Alfred struggled to tell what emotion the man was feeling. There was righteous fury in the Pthumerian’s eyes, yes, but did he also see...hurt?

“The history of Cainhurst is that of backstabbing and betrayal. It was no surprise that in their misguided pursuit of power, they would imbibe the corrupted blood.” The disgust in Logarius’s voice rose, the room suddenly feeling close and constrictive as he went on. “They watched idly and celebrated when old Pthumeria crumbled and was entombed deep in the Earth, leaving us intombed to rot!” 

Logarius’s last sentence ended like a roar, several of the third class looking a bit surprised at the outburst. Alfred started from his notes, nearly spilling his ink. Logarius calmed, his expression returning to placidity.

“Forgive me. This history is quite personal to myself, even if what I tell you is but a mere summary of the long and treacherous history of Cainhurst. Now, can any of you tell me what event made the creation of the executioners possible?”

Logarius swept his gaze over the room, sighing when he saw only a single hand rise. 

“Anyone other than Alfred? I am unsure if you are all shy, or completely unaware of any of our History.” Logarius’s tone was that of a disappointed parent. Alfred lowered his hand, feeling smug before another hand raised towards the back. 

“Ah, Collin. What event led to the creation of the Executioners?”

Collin lowered his hand, swallowing nervously. 

“The founding of Yharnam?” He asked. Logarius smiled. 

“Yes, humans coming to the remains of Pthumeria and founding the city of Yharnam made opposing the Vilebloods possible, as well as the Byrgenwerth Scholars unearthing the Pthumerian tombs and created the healing church.” Logarous paused, looking over the students at the old clock at the back of the classroom. 

“I believe we are out of time. Well, that should serve as a good summary. That concludes today’s lesson.”

\---

With class over, Alfred finally had his chance to catch the ear of Logarius before the man vanished back into his impenetrable office. Gently pushing past his classmates, Alfred half ran after the tall, golden robed figure.

“Um, Sir!?” Alfred called, racing after Logarius. Long legs meant long strides, and despite having grown, there was no way Alfred would ever be able to keep up with the ceiling scraping height of a Pthumerian.

“Yes, Alfred?” Logarius stopped and turned with a dramatic golden swirl of robes and pendants. Alfred looked back down at the wooden floor shyly, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.

“Sir, I just wanted-I just wanted to ask-The Doctor told me that I am to start giving blood soon, and forsake my Executioner training.”

“Yes.” Logarius said simply.

“But sir, I…”Alfred forced himself to look up. “I truly, truly wish to be an Executioner!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my boy.” Logarius said, turning once again to leave.

“Please sir! I want to fight evil head on!” Alfred followed, taking three steps for everyone of Logarius’s long strides,

“Out of the question.”

“Sir, you said I was talented at your wheel! At training! I’m one of the best in the third class, despite being the youngest!” Alfred pleaded.

“You were trained at Philip’s bequest, Alfred. I wanted to have you only study as a Blood Saint.” Logarius said, not even looking down. 

“There’s no way that being a Blood Saint should block me from being an Executioner!”

Logarius stopped, staring straight ahead. 

“How do we kill Vilebloods, Alfred?”

Alfred puffed out his chest. Surely he was changing Logarius’s mind to be asked such a question. 

“We purify them by righteously beating them to destruction with the Logarius wheel, whilst wearing the Ardeo, the beacon of radiance.” Reciting this was easy. No one studied harder at History and the Executioner’s ways then he! 

“During this purifying pulverization, what happens?” Logarius asked. Alfred faltered, feeling that he had somehow fallen into a trap.

“During the holy process, the blood and viscera spreads, but even the depths of foulness cannot dull our Radiance.” Alfred said, confused.

“Yes. But it can corrupt blessed Blood.” Logarius turned, his lined face solemn. “You are a good boy, Alfred. Very earnest, well read, and quite skilled in our ways. But Oedon has chosen you to bear the holy Medium of Blood. Your burden is to share your gift with others.” He placed a large hand on Alfred’s white robed shoulder as the boy slumped. 

“You are a Blood Saint. Not an Executioner. One drop of their rotten blood will spoil your blood and taint you beyond salvation. Executioners fight up close, hand to hand in the midst of corruption. That is not a place for someone who is Sainted.”

Alfred felt his eyes begin to burn. No! He could not cry. What reasons did he have to cry? He did not loose his family in a terrible fire, like Collin did! He was healthy, part of the Executioner's family! He could not weep in front of Master Logarius after trying to convince him he could be an executioner! Still, hot, traitorous tears began to roll down his cheeks. Alfred took out his handkerchief, withholding a sniffle. Crying infront of his master! How humiliating.

For a moment, Logarius looked unsure of what to do. 

“There there, lad. You are still a member of our family here. You have a very important role. Dry those eyes, now.” Alfred nodded, dabbing his own tears away. Oh, what an oaf he was. Forgetting about Amelia, failing to be made an Executioner, and now openly crying infront of his mentor.

“Go on, now.” Logarius said slowly, directing him down the hall with a gentle touch of the shoulder. Alfred nodded again, trying to keep his eyes dry as he slowly walked off. Logarius stood alone in the hallway as the boy ran off, watching him go.

“Making foolish little boys cry, are we?” A voice came. The gaslights down the hall flickered to life. Logarius realized that the whole discussion had taken place in front of infirmary.

“Doctor Camilla.”

“Well, someone had to break it through to him. I tried, but of course he’d only listen to you.” Camilla appeared from a doorway, arms folded. “Typical stubborn Teenager. He’s about fifteen, right?”

“Hardly what you’d call a little boy, Doctor.” Logarius said, conspicuously looming above her.

“Yeah, yeah. What do you care? He’s nearly six feet and still not even half your size.”

“That is not what I meant.” 

“Whatever.” Camilla waved her hand. “We’ll start takin’ blood next month then.”

“Of course.” Logarius said plainly.

“Doesn’t it weigh on you...just a little?” Camilla asked slowly.

“What do you mean, Doctor?”

“Oh, you know, taking blood from a mere boy to fuel your Vileblood killing machine. You are pretty good at the kindly father act, but that doesn’t erase the reality that you are still going to be harvesting his blood. Or that you tenderly comforted poor Colin about his parents death while still planning to lead him and the rest to death in battle” 

Logarius clenched a skeletal fist.

“You border on Blasphemy, Doctor.” Logarius rumbled. 

“Oh, Blasphemy? The scripture written by a murderer turned monster. If you ask me, the Vicar was a Beast long before he turned.”

“I also agree that the Vicar was wicked and misguided, Doctor.” Logarius’s voice was low and dangerous. “Accusations of leading my charges to death, I cannot abide.”

“Accusations? You plan a campaign of Genocide against a bunch of foppish Nobles who take the wrong blood, followed by ‘Soldiers’ you brainwashed as children. Two peas in a pod, you and Laurence.”

Faster than she could blink, Logarius’s arm shot upwards. Clutching the doorframe above her head, he crushed it in his grip, showering them both in chunks of wood and plaster. 

Camilla breathed hard, not letting herself be intimidated. 

“Think, ‘Master’ Logarius. What will the church do if something happens to one of their doctors. I can be excused for having doubts. You can’t be excused for murder.” Logarius did not move a muscle, staring at her with wild, dark eyes. Camilla thought of lizards, the prehistoric types that lacked eyelids or even the need to blink. Contemporaries of the living fossil before her, possibly. 

Logarius slowly retracted his grip on the doorframe, causing a second burst of dust and wood. 

“I won’t be able to close the door to my clinic now.”

“Set up a curtain.” Logarius snarled, striding off. 

\----

Crickets chirped in the night. Soon, the peaceful nocturnal symphony would be drowned out by the infernal buzz of cicadas in about a month’s time. Alfred gazed upwards, unable to see the ceiling in the darkened dormitory room. 

“Did you talk to Master Logarius yet?” The Dorms for men used double tiered beds to take advantage of the space. Alfred had requested Philip as his bunkmate specifically, at the cost of Philip having to deal with many late night questions. This time, however, Philip was the one asking.

Alfred gave out a noncommittal grunt, pulling the sheets over his head.

“That bad, huh?” Philip said, keeping his voice low. Six boys in a room meant many ears might be listening to their conversation, but the dorm room was quiet. “I guess he said no.”

“I was stupid thinking otherwise.” Alfred mumbled.

“You aren’t stupid, Alfred.” Philip reassured. “You were just very optimistic.”

“I can’t be an Executioner, ever.” Alfred moaned. “I’m just a Blood Saint.”

“You will be just as necessary, if not more to the cause!” Philip said, trying to cheer him up. 

“I want to fight evil…not just sit there and provide blood.”

“Hey. Alfred.”A thump sounded as Philip left his bunk. Alfred poked his head out of the sheets to come face to face with a now standing Philip.

“What?”

“You are still my brother, no matter what.”

“All the Executioners are yours and my brothers and sisters.” Alfred argued.

“Well...you are _extra_ my brother. Give me a hug.”

Alfred slunk out of the sheets sulkily, but complied. Philip hugged him tightly, thumping him on the back. 

“Ow.” Alfred said sarcastically. 

“Oh come on, that doesn’t hurt. You took a punch to the nose a week ago.”

Alfred grinned and thumped him back.

“Tryin’ to sleep!” Came an irritated call across the room.

“Alright! Alright! Just providing some moral support over here.” Philip shrugged, returning to his bunk. 

“Goodnight!”

“Goodnight.” came a chorus of five voices.

Philip laid back down, frowning at the bunk above. Hidden from the others, cracks of doubt were beginning to cross his mind.

Vicar Laurence torched Old Yharnam and the people within as well to destroy the Beasts. That act was evil.

Then...what did that make the act of killing Vilebloods? Of confining them to the castle, under fear and threat of death? Would the evil of the Church seep into the Executioners?

Or were the Executioners wrong all along?

\---

“Hold still.” Doctor Camilla commanded. Alfred stared at the plaster panelled ceiling, at the curtained window, at the water stain on the wall before him, trying to focus on anything other than what was happening to his left arm. He tried to hold still in the rather uncomfortable chair that had been provided.

“Clench your fist.” Camilla commanded, arranging his arm on the cushioned arm of the chair. Alfred did so reluctantly. 

“I’m having trouble finding a vein. You did not drink the suggested amount of water.” Camilla reprimanded. 

“I apologize...I forgot.” He hissed softly as the tourniquet was placed with cold tightness around his bare arm. 

“This is your duty now. You should never forget.” The doctor said sharply. “Such small veins for a large boy.” She chided. Alfred wondered what he was supposed to do about his vein size. Could he exercise them, like a muscle, or was Camilla complaining for the sake of complaining?

The cicadas were buzzing loudly outside. Alfred strained to hear the sounds of his fellow Executioners out on the lawn. Around this time he would usually be with them, and he dearly wished he was, instead of being stuck inside this stuffy room. The distant thumps of Logarius wheels hitting the grass and targets with accuracy was difficult to hear over the din of the insects.

“I’m going to stick you now.”

He recalled the first time he had successfully transformed the wheel seconds before bringing it down perfectly on the target in the grass. Logarius had been proud of him, his classmates looking on in envy. Alfred smiled at the memory, then winced as at the pinch of the needle. 

“There we go. You bleed well.”

“Will we be done soon?” He asked impatiently. Camilla tutted. 

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Camilla asked coldly. Vials clattered as she replaced the full vial.

“I would like to join the class outside.” 

“Why? You are not an Executioner.”

Alfred went silent, going back to staring at the ceiling. The Cicadas continued their tuneless buzz.

“There we go. That’s it for now.” Doctor Camilla slipped off the tourniquet. A wad of cotton was pressed to the site, secured on with a bandage. 

Doctor Camilla held up two vials of blood for him to see, making Alfred blanch at the sight of the dark red liquid inside the glass. The idea that his own blood was taken to be shared as medicine made him feel cold despite the fact he had never questioned blood ministry when he was younger and needed it to cure his Ashen blood. Something about coming face to face with something that should be inside his body stolen…

No! What selfish thoughts! His family would need this blood for wounds and hurts! His blood belonged to the Church, and the Executioners. That was Oedon’s gift! If anything, he should have given more!

“I daren't take more from a mere boy.” Doctor Camilla said as if reading his thoughts, carefully stowing the vials away in a medical cabinet. 

“I am not a mere boy!” Alfred argued. Camilla rolled her eyes. 

“You’ll have plenty of chances to give more later.” She said, placing a few wafers in Alfred’s upturned left hand. 

“Eat those. It’s so you can make more blood.”

“I’m free to go?” Alfred asked, not even bothering to hide his excitement as he made to get up.

“Only if you eat those wafers. And sit back down, I won’t have you passing out in my clinic.”

Alfred grumbled as he complied. The wafers were not terrible, rather dry and crumbly, but very sweet. The second he finished, he sprung from the chair-only to have Camilla glare at him sternly. 

“Take it easy.”

“I feel fine. Why should I?” Alfred said, making a show of straightening his white robes. The day was hot, so he had gone without the Church’s usual draped scarf and shawl.

“Because you can pass out from blood loss, fool.” Camilla scolded, handing him a mug of tea before placing a jar beside it. Alfred wrinkled his nose. Hot tea on a warm day! He took a sip anyway, before quickly finding the sugar pot to add several lumps to sweeten it to his liking. 

“Take that, go to your dorm, and don’t you dare sneak out to practice throwing wheels around.”

“Doctor! We do not just throw wheels around!” Alfred gasped, scandalized. “The sacred practice of the Logarius wheel is far more complex-”

“Just get out of my clinic. Practice days always end up with Executioners hurting themselves.” Alfred huffed, trotting off with his usual boyish excitement. He pushed past the curtain, taking a moment to look at it with confusion before continuing on his way. Doctor Camilla took a seat, sighing. She removed a clay pipe from a drawer, filling it with tobacco.

“Poor little oaf.” She muttered, lighting it.

\----

“Did it hurt?” Philip asked. Alfred looked up from his book. His left sleeve was rolled up, revealing a purple bruise on his arm, a memento of his first blood giving session.

The Executioner’s workshop’s library was composed of a small room crammed tightly with shelves and one tiny desk. The Manse that was repurposed for the Executioners was not created with the idea of a library in mind, but Logarius had made due the best he could. 

At least the uncovered window made the room seem cheery and cozy instead of cramped. 

“Yes. T’was bitter agony.” Alfred said straight faced, turning the page. 

“Yeah right. How much did she take?”

“Oh, nearly a gallon.”

“Right.” Philip said, smiling.

“The needle was a foot long.”

“Alfred.”

“And this wide.”

“Alfred.” This time, exasperation was creeping into his brother’s voice.

“Yes, Philip?” Alfred replied innocently.

“Seriously, were you alright with it?” Alfred looked up again, seeing the concern in Philip’s face. 

“Pardon my attempts at levity. Well, I hardly have a choice. I have Sainted Blood. I agreed to become a Blood Saint. It’s my fate.”

Philip leaned against the bookshelf, gazing out the window. 

“It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Well, it is right. I’m helping my family.” Alfred said, tracing the illustration on the page, a woodcut of the Logarius Wheel. “I miss training.”

“How old were you when you agreed?” Philip asked. Alfred stopped, his finger frozen on the page. 

“...It was a few days before I met you. Of course, I’ve never known how old I am.”

“I’d say you are fifteen, at most, so you would have been ten. Who did you agree to become a Blood Saint to?”

“Vicar Laurence.” Philip made a disgusted face. 

“You met him? The arsonist murderer Vicar?” 

“Well, he sainted me. I was very scared of him when we met, but I was afraid of everything, back then.” Alfred looked down at the page, trying to lose himself in the woodcut illustration. “I was very sick.”

“You’ve come a long way, brother.” Philip placed his hands on Alfred’s shoulders. “But asking a child to give their blood to the church…”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m happy here. If my blood was not Sainted and I did not agree, I would have never met you, Master Logarius, Bernice, Collin, Nathan, and-” Alfred started, a cheerful look on his face.

Philip quickly stopped him. “Alfred, please don’t list everyone you know.” 

“Oh, I was going to stop! I just have oodles of friends now, you know?”

“But are you happy?” Philip asked. 

“I’m…” Alfred thought, concentrating. He was happy, right? Well, for the most part, but…

“I just wish...I just wish I could have a set of the Holy Robes.”

“Is that all?” Philip furrowed his brow. 

“When I’m with the rest, I’m the only one in White Church robes in a sea of dove grey.” Alfred plucked his white sleeve. “I stick out, like a duck in a group of swans.”

Philip unconsciously touched his own Holy Mantle, frowning. 

“Alfred, I think you want more than just Executioner robes.”

“No. I could not possibly want anything more.” Alfred said stubbornly, turning back to the book. 

“You still want to be an Executioner.” Alfred jerked his head up, glaring at Philip.

“I cannot be an Executioner! Logarius said so!” Alfred tried to say firmly, but his voice betrayed him by cracking.

“But you still want to be one.” Philip said gently. Alfred looked down sadly. 

“Of course I do! I want to be one with all my heart! I’ve wanted to be one ever since I saw you and Bernice!” He looked at Philip tearfully. “Why would you reopen this wound? During all last month I have strived to believe that I can be happy without being a true Executioner, and now you have set me back to the start!” Alfred slammed the book shut, making to leave.

“Alfred! I’m sorry.” Philip took his hands before he could storm out. Alfred glared at him, but stopped attempting to leave. “I didn't mean to upset you. If anything, it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault for bringing this up.” Alfred said, frustrated. 

“No, it’s my fault for asking Logarius to let you train like an Executioner. It was me who got your hopes up.”

“He is _Master_ Logarius!” Alfred interjected, before looking down at the floor. “You...you do not have to apologize for letting me think I was going to be a normal Executioner. These have been the happiest years of my life. Just staying here, being with my family...I think I can be happy, even if I am not a real Executioner.” He looked Philip in the eye, blinking away tears. 

“Master Logarius already told me that you asked him to let me train. I understand. Just...please do not rub the reality into my wounded heart?” Alfred pleaded. Philip smiled sadly, hugging him tightly. Alfred gave a surprised gasp at the sudden affection, but embraced him back.

“I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again.” Philip said. He gazed out the window behind him, hiding his frown from Alfred.

_“If only to be as sure in something as Alfred is…”_

\---Present Day---

“Oh, thank the Gods.” Quincy breathed as he stumbled through the crumbling stone archway. The man looked to be at his wit’s end as he removed his hat, worrying at it with his fingertips and revealing tousled, sweat soaked hair. 

“Good to see you safe-with this new strangeness upon us.” Alfred said, as casually as he could muster. He was still by the top of the stairs at the forest gate, having found himself rather sluggish after taking the lead elixir. The sedative was doing its job, at least, as his breathing had evened and his heartbeat had returned to regularity. The side effects, the headaches and strange pains were nothing he could not handle.

Neither man looked up at the bloody Moon above, framed by the distant windmills that turned silently over the expanse of the Forbidden Woods hundreds of feet below. Quincy gave out a relieved laugh, edged with anxiety. 

“I was so worried-I thought, since everyone in the Chapel is acting strange, that you too-” 

“Acting strange?” Alfred tilted his head, concerned. Quincy shook his head sadly. 

“They’ve all gone mad, or sick, I don’t know what to do, what I can do.” He smiled up at Alfred. “At least...you are still here. You are still yourself. Nothing will change that.”

“A difficult promise to make on such a dangerous night.” Alfred could not stop himself from making the remark. It was true, but the Hunter needed comfort. 

“Dunno how you can stay so calm during this.” Quincy said with a nervous laugh. Alfred only smiled in response. He was not about to admit his use of sedatives any time soon.

Quincy drew close, then stopped, as if unsure, shyly scuffing his boot on the uneven cobbles. Alfred merely watched him, unreacting. It was strange to see such a confident man hesitate, he observed. Whatever had happened had shaken poor Quincy quite badly.

“Are you in need of something, dear Hunter?” Alfred asked. Quincy gave out another chuckle, dusting his coat.

“I know I probably am not the cleanest right now.” 

“We were both bathed in the blood of abominations, endured terrible wounds, and have truly exerted ourselves to the limit.” Alfred said evenly. What was the man getting at?

Quincy brushed his hair back nervously. 

“It’s just...I’d really like to feel another person right now. Embrace you. I mean. Nothing more. I just want...to feel a touch that’s not trying to kill me.” Quincy looked down at his boots, shyly. 

Alfred paused. When had he been embraced, during his life? Surely, his lost family had. Amelia had hugged him, after he was made a Blood Saint. Philip had hugged him many times, usually to comfort him after being rejected as a true Executioner time and time again. Outside of his departed brother, he was always too afraid to initiate an embrace, what if he was pushed away?

There was a first time for everything.

Alfred drew close in a halting fashion, his movements slowed with the sedative as well as anxiety, wrapping his arms around Quincy and pulling him into his embrace. He expected for the other man to pull away after a moment, but instead, Quincy reciprocated, his wiry arms holding him tightly, clutching the rough fabric of his holy shawl like a man drowning.

Quincy was a capable hunter, but his lean body felt strangely fragile in his grip. Alfred realized that the man had been shivering slightly as he held him close. He understood that this was a far different embrace from whenever Philip had hugged him, but how, he was unsure.

What a picture it must have made, two hunters hugging under such a ghoulish sky, neither wanting to break the embrace.

\---

Alfred smelled like old leather and dried blood, along with a metallic scent he could not quite place, but Quincy was sure that he himself smelled much worse. His broad shoulders and strong arms made Quincy feel, foolish as it seemed, the safest he had been in hours, pressed against Alfred’s surprising softness. There was the persistent ache of awkwardness, the urge to apologize and run off, but Quincy fought it. 

“You're a pretty good hugger.” He said, trying to break the awkwardness. Alfred responded with a soft chuckle. 

“I haven’t much practice.”

“I...needed this. Thank you.” Quincy said, but made no move to leave. He wanted to stay here, enveloped. Heavens, Alfred was tall, with Quincy eye level to his collar. Quincy was of average height back home, but it seemed that everyone in Yharnam was part giant. The urge to just bury his head in Alfred’s...rather ample chest was oddly strong.

“After you left, I found a key in the attic, and-when I went outside...there was a monster out there on the lake.”

“Some kind of new beast?”

“It was like the Blue creatures, somehow. Not a beast. Somethin’ else.” Quincy shuddered, trying to still himself. Honestly, what would his hunting partner think, with him trembling with fear? Alfred gave him a reassuring squeeze in response.

“Did you defeat it?” Alfred rested his chin on the top of Quincy’s head with a contented sigh, pulling the shorter man closer. Quincy could feel the heat radiating off the other man, his slow, steady heartbeat, making him feel like he was about to melt.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn't, and there's no need to rub in that I’m shorter.” Quincy chuckled. Alfred merely hummed in response.

It was strange, the closeness, just talking casually. Somehow stranger than anything else that night. Quincy never wanted it to end.

“I did-and there was...a woman in a dress sobbing, covered in blood, and then the moon went and turned red-I’m sure this makes no sense.” Quincy sighed.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.” Alfred admitted.

“Can...you tell me what you are looking for, then?” Quincy asked, feeling Alfred’s breathing quicken temporarily. 

“The path.” 

“No need to keep secrets, now.” Quincy said gently. “If you can trust me in your arms, you can trust me with what's in your mind.”

“I’ve told you of the Vilebloods. How all but one survives, and of my master’s work. How I must find Castle Cainhurst and free him. Surely, that is enough.” Quincy frowned. Alfred was deflecting. 

“I just want to help you, that's all. How are you going to free your master?” Quincy asked.

There was a pause. 

“When...the way becomes clear...surely, I will know.” Was Alfred’s faltering reply.

“Well, it’s an awfully strange night. You might find a way.” Quincy said, generously changing the subject. “How long ago was your Master imprisoned?”

“Well...he was not imprisoned.” Alfred swallowed hard. Quincy wondered what had got him so reticent. “It was nearly a decade ago...I am...unsure if this is to be discussed with outsid-aha, forgive me. Someone who is not an Executioner.”

“If he wasn’t imprisoned, why is he staying there at the castle?” Quincy asked. Something was not adding up. 

“He is protecting us. There is an evil there he is containing, the last Vileblood. If I can free him from his duty, and destroy the evil myself, he can be Martyred, truly.” An unfamiliar excitement was coming into Alfred’s voice. It was a slavering tone that made Quincy uneasy. 

“The Vilebloods will finally be destroyed!” Alfred pulled back, gazing at Quincy. There was a maddened glint in his eyes that faded as he continued. “My brothers and sisters who died in the siege, they can finally find peace.”

“Then…” Quincy furrowed his brow, doing the math. Alfred would have been in his middle to late teens, horribly young to be in a siege, but a cold enough commander would have no remorse in sending someone so young to die.

“Were you there?” Quincy asked. Alfred went tense in his arms. He broke the embrace, stepping back, leaving Quincy cold and alone in his absence. His face was unreadable in the red moonlight, casting his face in blue toned shadows. The red moon behind him seemed to light his golden hair aflame.

“No...no. I was not.” He said softly. There was a hint of regret in his voice. Heavens, Alfred must be terribly, terribly, lonely to wish he was there when the people he called family died in a hopeless battle.

“Why-” Quincy began.

“Because Master Logarius willed it that I stay behind!” Alfred interrupted sharply. He paused, looking apologetic, and took Quincy’s hand, squeezing it gently as if to ask for forgiveness. His studded gloves only had the coldness of leather, not the human warmth that Quincy craved.

“You must have been quite young. Your Master must have been looking out for you.” Quincy said, trying to console him. He had the feeling he was treading carefully here. The wrong word might open up a decade old wound.

“I was old enough to fight. I had been trained.” Alfred muttered, more to himself than Quincy. 

“Then...you must be the last Executioner.” Alfred nodded shallowly, not meeting his gaze. 

“I’m...gods, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Quincy said softly.

“They died gloriously, in battle. All the Vilebloods, save one, were utterly and righteously destroyed. Martyrs, every last one, save for my Master. I must right that wrong.” Alfred looked at him, smiling.  
“You would have made a wondrous Executioner, Quincy.” He said, clasping Quincy’s hands once more. “I feel I can trust you with anything...in fact, let's take a rest. Would you like to come home with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope Lead elixirs aren't made with actual lead.  
> \---  
> I hope you like shoehorned in, speculative Lore. Queen Yharnam is going to become important to this story trust me.  
> Sorry that this chapter took a while to write. Mostly because dramatic teenage Alfred is kind of hard to write, and also Logarius is hard to write And Logarius is also horrible! Don't use a teenager for blood, you giant bitch!!  
> Also, wow, actual hugging instead of confused longing and lingering hand touches? It's almost like this is a shipfic and not JUST a speculative lore extravaganza!  
> So uh. yeah. don't have much to write here. Keep washing your hands. Stay socially isolated.  
> \---  
> One last note: Alfred and Amelia's stories have pretty much branched away from each other, so I have a planned Amelia fic upcoming, stay tuned!


	6. Reciprocated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Quincy have a peaceful moment.

‘What a miserable place’ Quincy thought to himself as they passed the rows of Yharnam’s rundown buildings. They had passed many houses on the way to Alfred’s home, each one having Quincy wondering if this was where he lived, but now it was becoming more and more apparent as Quincy walked up the rickety steps that the man was renting, rather than owning a place of his own. Understandable, land was expensive in Yharnam, but this grim place looked almost unfit for habitation.

While he had happily accepted to travel home with Alfred, Quincy was not expecting anything to happen when they arrived. Quincy did feel attraction to Alfred-and if he did not, after that embrace, he certainly did. It was becoming increasingly clear that the man was rather innocent, if not totally and utterly oblivious. But Alfred was kind, polite-and enticingly tall and strong. Easy on the eyes, well, Alfred lacked the profile of the commonly swooned after, but he was handsome in his own unique way, with his expressively thick eyebrows and strong nose.

Quincy was grateful for the fact that Yharnam lacked any prejudice towards lovers of the same gender. The Yharnamites saved all their bigotry for outsiders, it seemed. 

In the middle of the chaos he had been thrown in, it seemed a bit foolish to ponder his romantic prospects with a man he knew for technically less than a day, but with the night unnaturally stretched, and all they had been through together, well, there was a possibility.

Of course, there was the chance that Alfred was not attracted to other men at all. Either way, Quincy would take things slow, and not press or presume.

“Well, it’s not much...” Alfred started. Quincy waited for him to add the expected ‘But...’ to the sentence, but it never came as he fiddled with the key in the lock. It would have been funny, usually cheerful Alfred being unable to find anything nice about his home, if they were not trapped in a plague ridden city filled with prowling beasts on a supernaturally prolonged, horrible night as Alfred mumbled curses under his breath, wiggling the stuck key in the hole. The door finally flew open with a hideous squeak, revealing a long, musty smelling hallway. 

“Is this where you live?” Quincy asked. The floorboards creaked underfoot. Gas lamps lined the walls, but the only light was the narrow windows that lined the left side of the hall. The wallpaper was faded and peeling in strips.

“Yes! I’m renting a room here. Of course, I have not seen my landlord for awhile. He left a few weeks before, going for supplies, and I’m afraid I have not seen him since. I still leave my rent payment under the door, but he has not been collecting them...”

Quincy smiled. Only Alfred would continue to pay rent in a timely manner during a crisis to a man who had almost certainly died or fled the city. Or worse.

“Do you think he might have turned…?” Quincy started, before trailing off. The question hung in the air. Alfred gave a nervous laugh and continued walking down the hall.

“Well-if he’s a beast, I suppose we will have to deal with him, then.” He continued, as if needing to fill the eerie silence. 

“I’ve been the only one here for a while. The neighbors left for the mountains, the woman upstairs said ‘I’m sick of this damn city, and if you have any sense, you’d leave too’ and left.”

“Why didn’t you leave?” Quincy nearly tripped over a flower pot filled with dead plants. “No offense, pal, but this place...it’s pretty damn awful.”

“How could I leave? My mission is here. I’ve never lived anywhere else, not that I recall. This was...well, the only lodging I could afford.” He turned back, smiling sheepishly.

“Yharnam was not always this bad. When I was young, when the Cathedral Ward was still being built, it was quite beautiful. Sunny days, birds chirping, the sun glinting off the distant ocean...”

Quincy wondered if it was nostalgia clouding Alfred’s memories. The Cathedral Ward was beautiful, but in an eerie way, the elegant architecture decorated with spooky gargoyles, the weathered statues of the Cathedral and the Chapel contrasting with the miserably cramped streets and claustrophobically aligned houses, much like the one he was inside at the moment. 

“Here we are!” Alfred announced, producing another key. Quincy braced himself for the inevitable unlocking difficulties. 

The lock thankfully clicked open with ease, opening to reveal a pitch black room. Quincy took a cautious step forward, and yelled when his boot collided with something hard and metal with a loud clang.

“Careful now.” Alfred chided, lighting a match. 

“Don’t you have gas?” Quincy asked, stepping back into the hall to let the other man pass. Alfred carefully navigated through several hard to see objects, lighting strategically placed candles around the room. 

“Oh, it was shut off a week ago. It doesn’t matter, I spend each night hunting.” He pulled back thick curtains-probably for shutting out any sunlight during the day to help with the nocturnal Hunter lifestyle- to let in some weak light from the outdoor streetlight and the reddened moon. 

With the room a passable dim instead of a pitch black, Quincy could now see that almost every available surface was occupied either by books, carefully arranged tapestries, or strange, golden conical shapes, save for a rather ricketty looking bed. The room was spotlessly clean in contrast to the moldering hallway he had just passed, just terribly cluttered with rather strange objects.. He looked down, seeing what he had stubbed his toe on had been one of the strange cones. 

“Alfred...what is all this?” Quincy asked. Even the walls were covered with ancient, somewhat crude looking tapestries, so sun faded that he could barely make out scenes of woodlands and hunting parties. They were obviously made for much higher ceilings and walls than Alfred’s very humble room, and the edges were delicately rolled up where they met the floor.

“When the Executioner’s workshop was shuttered, I saved all the artifacts that I could. I’m afraid I don’t have much space…” Alfred brightened as he saw Quincy gazing at the tapestries. 

“These belonged to the Master himself. They are from centuries ago, and look every day of those centuries old, sadly. I dare not try to restore them.” Alfred drew close to him, carefully sliding the disturbed cone back to its spot. 

“These Ardeos thankfully survived, but all the uniforms were terribly moth eaten, save for the one I wear of course, but it needed quite heavy repairs on it.” He said, touching the hem of his robe. 

“You did a good job on it.” Quincy said. The idea of Alfred carefully sewing together a battered and tattered set of holy robes was somehow endearing. Alfred beamed. 

“What did you say these were? Ardeos?” Quincy asked, watching him carefully slide the cones in an organized row across the battered wooden floorboards, making a small path to the bed. Heavens, why doesn’t he just stack them, Quincy wondered.

“Yes! One of Master Logarius’s most radiant creations. They block out all the corruption of the World, allowing the wearer to truly focus on their goal of justice.”

“You wear it on your head? Like a helmet?” Quincy asked. Alfred nodded enthusiastically.

So...you can’t see in it?” Quincy asked. Alfred frowned, looking down at the line of gleaming cones. 

“Well, you can, if you tip it up slightly, but that’s not the point.” He mumbled.

Quincy decided not to open that can of worms. He was not liking the trend of his companion’s worldview being so delicate that it could be disassembled with nothing more than a few questions.

“You might have a bit more space if you just stacked ‘em.” Quincy suggested. “They are hollow, yeah? To stick one’s head in, right?”

Alfred gave him a scandalized look. “To do so would be to diminish their radiance.” He said cryptically but firmly, placing his Kirkhammer on the ground and sitting on the bed wearily. 

Quincy looked about for anywhere to sit. Well, there was the bed, but he did not want to violate Alfred’s personal space. Just because they had hugged earlier did not mean he could disregard all politeness! There was a small table covered in carefully arranged books, topped by another Ardeo, heavens, there must have been ten of the things in the room. 

Strangely enough, there was no sign of a closet, only an ancient looking chest of drawers. The idea that the Executioner’s robes being the only clothing that Alfred owned crossed his mind briefly, only for Quincy to swat that thought away. Alfred was just very dedicated and devout, and wished to preserve the history of his beloved Executioners. He would have to have another outfit for laundry day, yes? Of course, now that he had seen this bizarre room, bereft of all but the most necessary objects for living, well, Quincy was getting a bit worried.

“How long have you been living like this-I mean, living here?” Quincy asked, leaning on the door. 

“Oh, about six months now. I still have enough of my pay as a Church hunter saved, and I don’t need much.”

That’s terribly obvious, Quincy thought. Thinking about his family’s ranch back home, filled with lovingly homemade furniture passed down through generations, books carefully kept on shelves along with historic curiosities that had found over the years, walls lined with paintings by family members blessed with artistic talent, freshly picked flowers on battered end tables, the scribbles of his nieces and nephews, and the rare professional portrait of ancestors, made Alfred’s living situation seem even more sad. The image of the man sitting alone day after day, as he was now in front of him, in a room so cluttered yet so bare of humanity and life, with only books and his own thoughts for company was terribly tragic.

Quincy sighed, and took the plunge. Alfred smiled at him warily from his seat on the bed, as if he knew what Quincy had been thinking. 

“May I sit with you?” Quincy asked, taking a careful step forward.

“Oh! Of course! I apologize, I should have invited you from the start!”

The bed looked so miserably fragile that Quincy worried that their combined weight might cause it to give up the ghost, but it held steady as he sat next to Alfred with a sigh.

The two men were silent for a time, perhaps due to the strangeness of the situation. Quincy had been in men’s rooms before, hell, he had done more than just sit on a bed with another man, but something about this place, about Alfred, always made him feel reticent. He liked the man very much, but going very, very slow seemed to be the best course of action. It was becoming increasingly clear he was dealing with someone who was not only terribly isolated and hopelessly loyal to a dead cause, but also seemed to have no concept of normal life experiences at all.

_What was your life like before we met? Wasting away in this miserable crypt, only emerging to go hunt monsters and pray, cleaning artifacts of a time you might not have been present for? Why the Executioners? Why are you so alone when you are the friendliest man I’ve met here, well, the only one not coughing his lungs out and bedridden, that is. Is there something the others know that I don’t? You said you trust me, but...you haven’t told me anything._

Speaking of normal life, what was he going to do to get things back to any semblance of normal? He had come to Yharnam to cure his disease. That was done, but now he was trapped in what could only be described as a nightmare. He had hoped that going to Byrgenwerth would give him necessary information, but he had only made everything worse by defeating the monster on the lake.

The creature had not even attacked him first, he realized with a twinge of guilt. Seeing that thing...it made him react with...anger? Primordial fear? Anyway, he had struck with his axe, and it retaliated, and after many, many tries, it lay dead, a woman wept, the moon rose, and he had made everything worse.

“I have to find a way to end this night.” Quincy murmured, trying to chase away the thoughts. 

“A noble goal.” Alfred responded. Quincy looked at him, seeing him staring out the window. The light from the streetlamp outside illuminated his profile, making his blonde hair seem to glow slightly in the orange light.

“I guess you have your own plans, with the Vilebloods.” Quincy said, and was met with silence. He missed the closeness of when they had embraced before. With Alfred only a few inches away now, Quincy thought to close the gap. 

“What are you going to do when the night is over?” Quincy asked, placing a hand over Alfred’s. The man did not react to the touch at first, but entwined his fingers in Quincy’s own. 

“Continue searching for the way to Cainhurst.” He answered.

“What will happen if we do find a way for the sun to rise? Will the hunt be over, forever? Will the beasts go away?” Quincy asked. “How do we get this to end?”

“I do not know.” Alfred clasped Quincy’s hand. Lacking gloves, they were quite calloused from the work of a Hunter. “What do you plan to do next?”

“Well, I ended up at Yhar’gul. I reckon the answers might be there.” Quincy sighed. “I found a note when the red moon rose, and I ended up back in that awful place. ‘End the Mensis Ritual, before we are all turned into beasts’. There was this awful chanting from the cathedral, but the only sane person I only found a Healing Church nun."

Alfred’s breath caught in his throat. Quincy looked up at him, startled. 

“You okay there, pal?” 

“I am fine. Just an old memory. This talk of a Ritual, well, it reminded me of a nightmare I once had.” He hesitantly continued after Quincy gave him a questioning look. 

“When I was a boy, I was a patient of the Church for a time.” Alfred explained, glancing away from Quincy’s gaze, giving his hand a squeeze.

“You were sick?” Quincy asked. It occurred to him that despite how much Alfred spoke, he rarely opened up like this.

“Deathly so. It was quite serious. I suppose the Vicar back then took an interest, and I was taken to Upper Cathedral Ward.” 

“Ascend to Oedon Chapel…” Quincy mumbled as he continued, remembering the words of Gehrman.

“One night, well, I was very sick. It must have been something I imagined, with my feverish child’s mind. I thought I heard the Choir Scholars chanting outside my door, down the hall. Quite the eerie sound. It was Latin, of course, this being the Church.”

“Then what happened?” Quincy asked.

“Well...for a brief moment, I thought the moonlight turned red, much like the night we are in now. I was quite spooked. It’s strange how the brain can fool itself into seeing what is not there, yes?” Alfred gave a forced chuckle, glancing at him before looking away shyly. Quincy frowned. 

“Alfred.”

“Yes?”

“Seeing as we are stuck in a situation where the moon has gone red, and we’ve both run into all manner of monsters, don’t you think there's a rather hefty chance that the Ritual you heard actually happened?”

“Oh.” Alfred looked down, ears turning pink. “Well...it just seemed...out of place. Foolish to believe it happened. I try not to think about my life before I...before I became part of the Executioners.”

Quincy nodded slowly, just grateful to have learned a bit more about his enigmatic companion. Stirring, Alfred slowly took Quincy’s other hand in his own, looking into his eyes. The air seemed to become strangely warm between them as bright green met warm brown.

Quincy tried to play oblivious, but judging by Alfred’s air of awkward inexperience, this was the man's first rodeo.

Alfred faltered as he drew close, ducking shyly back. Quincy grinned

“Do you want to kiss me?” Quincy asked, reaching out and cupping Alfred’s fuzzy cheek as the man started to stammer his response.

His thumb grazed the wiry hairs of Alfred’s mutton chops playfully as Quincy caressed his face. Quincy reflected on the fact he had never cared much for the foriegn facial hairstyle, but on Alfred, the sideburns were starting to become rather endearing.

“If that is alright! I mean. It seemed right. I’m sorry-” He stammered out, a blush spreading across his cheeks. Despite his embarrassment, Alfred leaned eagerly into Quincy’s touch.

Quincy felt a slight bit of dread mixed with the expected warm fuzziness. He was not only stuck in an endless night in a terrible town, but he was falling hard and fast for a mysterious, endearingly messed up stranger. Well, he would just roll with it. The situation right now was rather pleasant. 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve kissed someone, is it?” Quincy asked, meaning to tease, only to be met with embarrassed silence. Alfred was averting his gaze as well as he could without leaving Quincy’s touch, focusing on the pristinely cleaned yet badly scuffed floor.

“Oh...” Was all Quincy could think to say. The man was certainly his age, or at least a little younger. Quincy had kissed a handful of men, had been in love a few times in the same amount of years. Gods, he wondered again, what kind of life was this man living before they met?

_Who are you?_

“Well, if we are stuck in an endless night, there’s never a better time for it, I reckon, if you would like to.” Quincy said, leaning in and praying that Alfred would follow. It would get rather awkward if the man changed his mind.

Five seconds into the kiss, Quincy realized that Alfred had indeed reciprocated. He also learned that Alfred was a terrible kisser. As Quincy had leaned in, the tip of Alfred’s nose had somehow poked him in the eye, and when they finally got their faces properly aligned, the man seemed to think that a kiss was more or less a race to try to get inside Quincy’s mouth. The fact that Alfred tasted, unsurprisingly, of blood and metal, did not do anything to help matters. The man hugged him tightly, pulling Quincy close in striking contrast to his hesitancy before. The man’s humid breath in Quincy’s mouth and how tightly Alfred was squeezing him was overwhelming as Alfred performed his idea of kissing, which seemed to consist of slamming his face against Quincy’s without any discernible rhythm while having his partner enveloped in a choking embrace.

It was less of a tender moment and more like being lovingly mauled by his terribly eager partner. While the excitement and passion was charming, the knowledge that he would probably need a handkerchief after this was not. Quincy opened his eyes, to see that Alfred had his own open, and possibly had his eyes open the entire time.

Oh dear.

Quincy pulled back for air, gasping and trying to process what had just happened. Alfred smiled at him, red faced.

“Was that too much?” He asked, oblivious of his dearth of technique.

“I think you need a spot of practice.” Quincy said, breathless as he fell back into the man’s arms. Well, it wasn’t completely unpleasant. 

Quincy glanced over Alfred’s shoulder at the books stacked on the bedside table as he tried to catch his breath. He recognized a few famously sappy romance novels, favored by his own hopelessly romantic eldest sister back home, scattered among the expected religious and historic texts. Well, that explained Alfred’s kissing technique, at least. Hopefully he could be taught a better way to kiss, or Quincy might just dodge his next affections.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quincy: Damn Partner you live like this?  
> \---  
> Sorry about the short chapter. What WAS going to be chapter 6 is is harder to write then originally planned and I have been feeling awfully unmotivated with having to deal with classes ~~and I got back into Elder Scrolls, not just online but modding Morrowind and Oblivion help meeee~~ , and my wonderful editor has been feeling the same way so progress has been slow going. Thankfully I have bit of a backlog of scenes that happen later in the fic, so once I'm out of this rut I won't be too behind.  
> But hey I've been learning html and coding so that's fun. _I don't need rich text to play with the text anymoooooore_  
>  I have been sitting on this scene and greatly anticipating posting this for a while. **Yes folks, Alfred and Quincy finally kissed, and I made it very unsexy.**  
>  I promise the next chapter will have actual plot stuff and not just fluff. So, uh. Enjoy.


	7. Feverish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip's doubts with the Executioner's rises to a breaking point. Alfred sinks deeper into illness.  
> In the Present, Quincy gets an idea.

\---

_When the Queen announced that she was with divine child, all in attendance drank deeply of the wine, a new vintage, and were invigorated for it._

_The Queen rose and told the truth, the drink was from her own veins, a divine gift from her intangible lover, a boon to Pthumeria. All celebrated, raising their chalices._

\---

They had spent a few moments embracing after their kiss before the guilt swirling inside of Alfred forced him to gently push Quincy off and stand, picking up his Kirkhammer. It was a pleasant distraction, sure, his poor heart was racing and jumping about with his swirling thoughts and emotions, but only one thing stood clear. 

What was really important was finding Castle Cainhurst, and staying here was delaying his destiny. Hopefully he could be forgiven for indulging in a bit of romantic passion along the way, and Quincy had been uncommonly kind and supportive. He had been frightened that Quincy had been scared off by his eagerness, but the man had stayed. The thought made his heart skip a beat. Should he take another lead elixir, to calm it?

“Right, back on the trail.” Quincy picked up his Axe where it leaned against the door. “...Thanks for taking me here, partner.”

Alfred smiled, carefully moving the Ardeos on the floor to reach his chest of drawers. A compulsion begged him to check them for damage, what if in his excitement earlier he damaged them, but he squashed it down. Not while Quincy was watching. He pulled out a few lead elixirs from the drawer, frowning that his stash was growing low. A headache was starting to build behind his eyes, probably from all the excitement that had happened tonight. 

“What’s that?” Quincy asked, looking over his shoulder. Startled, Alfred slammed the drawer shut. 

“Ah-just some medicines. Hunters tools, and the like, of course.” Alfred said quickly, tucking them into his altered pockets. 

“I see. Best to stay prepared.” Quincy said, smiling at him, and sending Alfred’s heart once again racing.

“I was not too terrible at it, was I?” He asked, cheeks pink.

“At what?” Quincy asked, fixing his clothes.

“Kissing. It was my...my first time.” Having to admit his lack of experience was shameful, and even worse, Quincy looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. Alfred looked hurt.

“Don’t feel bad. Just let me take the lead next time, and soon you’ll be kissin’ like a pro. And maybe don’t keep your eyes open.”

“Of course!” Alfred agreed, quickly turning towards the door. Wait, next time? The thought of a next time nearly made him swoon.

\--

_Years Ago  
_

“Master.”

Logarius looked up from his desk, his brow furrowing as he saw Philip standing before him. The boy’s-no. The _man’s_ face was firm as he glowered at his master. His deep dark eyes, so often warm, were cold with an unspoken accusation. Even his skin that was so flushed with the warmth of life seemed sallow in the candlelight Logarious worked with.

“You neglected to knock, Philip.” Logarius said, setting down his quill and leaned stiffly back. He held Philip’s gaze and looked down on him. A dare to challenge his authority through whatever minor complaint the youth would raise.

“I need to know what your plans are for Cainhurst.” Philip said, ignoring him. Logarius had dominated the dark wooden halls and fervent atmosphere of the Workshop for much of his life, but like many physical irritations, he had developed a thick skin. The Pthumerian no longer carried the weight he once had. Not with Philip, and not with the Church. The other executioners were beginning to notice.

“For now, we have stationed some of your fellow first classmates around Hemwick to keep watch on the accursed place. No Vilebloods can get in or out.”

“I mean in future, Sir. Not the present.” Philip said all but cutting him off. Logarious bristled at his protege’s insolence. 

“I shall not entertain conversation with you at this time.” Logarius’s voice was icy. “I bid you to leave now, before you lose your position as my protege.”

Philip bowed stiffly, and left. 

\---

Alfred gazed listlessly up at the ceiling, left arm outstretched across the bed. Since his first blood drawing, the procedure had become twice weekly, then every two days, then daily. He had tried to keep up with his studies, despite being told that as a Blood Saint, he did not need to attend any longer, but the new schedule had slowly eaten up any time he had to go and pretend that he was going to be an actual executioner. 

He would never voice it to anyone, but ever since the drawings had begun, a foriegn feeling of deep exhaustion had come over him. Even listening to the sounds of his once fellows training and rough housing outside could not rouse him from what seemed to be a state of spiritual hibernation. More and more often, he had found himself more and more often lying in the dorm room during the day, alone.

Alfred pulled up his white sleeve, staring blankly at the angry, purple bruise that had become a permanent feature of his right arm. It had started small, appearing when his blood was first drawn, but it had only continued to grow since. 

“Executioners!” Alfred sat up at attention at the sound of Logarius’s voice outside. Wearily picking himself up from the bed, he stepped past the rows bunks to pull aside the thick dorm room curtain to see what was happening on the lawn below. 

Logarius had lined up his classmates, members of the third class, in a row. A few feet before each one, perfectly aligned in a row, was twelve Golden Ardeos. Logarius was speaking to the now serious class, but Alfred could see the barely veiled excitement on each Executioner’s face. Logarius’s voice was quieter now, unable to reach Alfred through the glass of the window as he went from Executioner to Executioner.

Alfred watched silently as Logarius reverently bestowed the Ardeos upon his classmate, ritualistically placing the shining conical helmet upon their heads.

‘I’m not an Executioner. I’m still a member of the family. I’m just not an executioner.’ He began to mumble, feeling hot tears begin to well up in his eyes. 

Was it a small mercy that Logarius had not told him about the ceremony, trying to protect him from the harsh truth? Or had Master Logarius not wanted him there at all? Alfred drew the curtains shut. Weeks ago, he would, perhaps, have thrown himself on the bed sobbing, but any deep grief had been replaced by an empty tiredness. He merely buried his face in the pillow, silently willing the tears to stop.

\---

“Alfred!” Collin called. Alfred sat up on the bed.

“Oh! Collin. Hello!” Collin beamed at him

“You should have been there! Logarius made us all true Executioners! We even received our Ardeos! Of course, we had to lock them back in the Armory, but that’s just to keep them safe. I’m sure I’d lose mine if that was not the case-” Collin stopped as Philip placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Collin, Alfred has not been feeling very well of late.” Philip said gently. Collin looked at Alfred with worry. 

“I’m sorry, I just got so excited.” Collin said, his expression grave. 

“I’ll be alright Collin. Thank you.” Alfred said, nodding as Collin left. 

He and Philip sat in silence as Collin left the door. Excited chatter sounded in the halls outside, but no one else entered the dorm rooms.

“I’m glad Collin is doing better.” Alfred said, breaking the silence. 

“It’s been a while since I have seen him this happy.” Philip smiled briefly, before his face became serious. 

“Of course, I came here to check on you.”

“I’m quite alright. I’m not sick.”

“You aren’t one to stay inside all day. I know Logarius said you no longer need to attend training or classes, but you love history, and you don’t even go to those lessons.” Philip said, worry edging into his voice. 

“I’m just concentrating on my duties.” Alfred said flatly. 

“That’s admirable, but you are a person. Not a vessel for blood.”

“Does it matter? I can help the executioners this way.” Alfred stated. Philip crossed his arms. 

“Alfred, I love you, but you look terrible.”

“Very kind of you, Philip.”

“No, I mean, you look sick. You’ve been losing weight, hardly sleeping. Don’t think I don’t notice you tossing and turning on the upper bunk all night, and the grey bags under your eyes-”

Alfred’s eyes went wide with fear. “Gods, no! No!”

Philip jumped back in surprise as Alfred flew from the bed, pushing past him towards the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him in his sudden panic. 

“Alfred!” Philip called, knocking on the door. “What on Earth is wrong?” 

The door slowly creaked open, revealing Alfred desperately examining his face in the mirror. 

“Alfred, it’s just eyebags. From lack of sleep-” Philip started. Realization hit him as he saw Alfred desperately pulling his eyelids back, examining the whites of his eyes.

“Oh gods, no, no, I could infect everyone.” He whispered desperately, then opened his mouth to check his teeth. “Not again, please. Anything but that.”

“Alfred, it’s not Ashen Blood.”

“How do you know that?!” Alfred turned to him, his eyes reddened from his panicked examination. “What if it returned? I could infect everyone!”

Philip gripped the boy’s shoulders, steadying him. 

“You don’t have Ashen Blood.”

“What proof do you have? Get away from me!” Alfred pushed him back, backing up against the bathroom’s wall. “I can’t infect you! You are Master Logarius’s right hand.”

Philip shook his head. 

“Alfred. Think. You get your blood drawn every day now, yes?”

Alfred nodded slowly, still panicked. 

“Then Doctor Camilla would have noticed the moment the blood entered the vial that something was wrong. The Ashen Blood is not a subtle affliction” Philip said gently. 

Alfred stared at him, obviously thinking it over. With a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, he hugged Philip tightly.

“Forgive me, for being such an oaf!” He said tearfully.

“I can forgive you for that. You are not off the hook for self-abuse.” Philip said sternly. “Why have you been staying inside so much?”

Alfred frowned, pressing his thumb against the interior of his elbow. 

“You were not quite incorrect when you said I was feeling ill.” Alfred admitted. “I have not truly felt myself since the drawings began to occur daily.” 

“Daily?! Is that so? Why haven’t you told me?” Philip said, concerned. 

“It is my duty. I said so before, yes? It is the only way I can be of help to the Executioners. It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“What is such a vast amount of blood needed for?” Philip asked, an edge of anger entering his voice. “Doctor Camilla usually uses traditional methods. Having reserves of Blood is one thing, but she’s bleeding you damn near dry!”

“I’ll be alright, Philip.” Alfred said, attempting to smile bravely while casually leaning against one of the sinks. Philip was not convinced. 

“I’ll have to speak to Logarius about this.” Philip said, sighing. “This treatment of you-it’s not right. He won’t be happy to see me again so soon, I suppose.”

“But you are his protege?” Alfred asked, his thick brows furrowing. Philip looking out the door, looking for any other Executioners.

“Alfred, you know our history.”

“Yes! By heart!” Alfred said enthusiastically. 

“Do you wonder what the Vilebloods know? What do they think, imprisoned in their castle?” Alfred tilted his head, confused. He felt that Philip was trying to get to something, but his head felt heavy and stuffed with cotton. Any thoughts were slow in coming. 

“No, why would we need to know what the Vilebloods think?”

“When dogs corner a fox on a hunt, they don’t seek to just contain the beast.” 

“Philip, I don’t know what you mean.” Alfred said tiredly. The excitement had brought back his previous drowsiness back tenfold. Philip took his arm, leading him back to his bed. 

“Rest easy, brother. I’ll speak to Logarius.” Philip glanced up at Alfred’s top bunk, frowning. “Let’s switch. I don’t want you falling out in the middle of the night.”

“I’m hardly that weakened, Philip.” Alfred protested, only to be gently pushed onto Philip’s perfectly made up sheets. Unwilling to argue further, Alfred went along with it, giving Philip a stern yet exhausted glare.

“Relax.” Philip said sternly before leaving. 

\---

“What’s up with you now?” Bernice fell in step behind Philip as he purposefully made his way to the office. “Off to argue with Logarius again?”

“Only to ask him to let up on Alfred.” Philip nodded to a small group of Executioners, still excitedly chattering about their new Ardeos.

“Yeah, he looks pretty dry these days. Camilla is wringing him out like a sponge.” Bernice said casually.

“Don’t joke about this!” Philip chided, stopping to face her as she smiled mirthlessly. 

“It’s the life of a blood saint. Oedon’s blessing is more of a curse, I’d say.”

“Gods. What do we need all the blood for?” Philip asked.

“With enough, maybe we will be able to wipe out the vileblood royalty without too much fear of injury or death.” Bernice remarked.

Philip paused. “Wipe them out?”

“Gods, Philip. I thought you were the smart one.” Bernice stood before the hallway’s window, gazing out at the lawn outside. In the dying summer light, she turned to Philip.

“Logarius never comes out and says it in plain words, but it’s always on his mind. We aren’t here just to contain the bastards in their hellish little castle, we are here to kill the Nobility. What the hell did you think the wheels, the rituals, the impassioned speeches about the wickedness of the Cainhurst Royals was about?”

Bernice continued while Philip stared aghast. 

“I always wondered why you joined. You don’t really have a horse in the race.”

“I joined the healing church, and they suggested the Executioners needed my aid.” Philip interrupted. Bernice snorted. 

“Because you were a strong looking young lad with a good head on his shoulders, not someone for a life of fiddling with the profane and gods know what.” Bernice set her jaw in determination. “I joined the Executioners because the damn Vilebloods have strangled Hemwick ever since they came here!”

Philip tried to speak, but there was fire in Bernice’s eyes. 

“My brother goes missing, vanishes after hunting in the woods near Cainhurst! Later, when the Vilebloods ride into town, looking for cattle to force us peasant farmers to give, and there he is, trailing behind his new masters! Wizened, aged, twisted by foul magic! They deny everything, but it was him, and his mind was totally gone!”

“I’m sorry-” Philip started, before Bernice cut him off. 

“They said our tithe that year was our best cow and our finest steer, but it was really that and my brother, now a slave to Cainhurst!” Bernice hissed. “The Vilebloods have bled Hemwick dry, stealing good men and daughters, our animals and crops, leaving us in the dirt while they drink from gold cups and dress in fine furs. I’m not in this for any misuse of holy blood or whatever the dogma says. I’m in this for my home.”

Philip nodded silently.

“Logarius is a crazy old bastard, but even he won’t go as far as to kill the children ‘n maids and all. Once Hemwick is free from the Vileblood stranglehold, I’ll turn my back on this bloody church and never look back. Try to rebuild my home, free it from the grasp of the Vilebloods, and the Witch.”

“The Witch?” Philip asked. Bernice went from angered red to deathly white. 

“That is no talk for anyone outside of Hemwick. She’s our curse to bear.” Bernice hissed, storming off.

Philip sighed, going back on his course for Logarius’s office.

\---

“Philip. Once again.” Logarius steepled his bony fingers. The dark oak had always made the Pthumerian’s office seem dim and oppressive. No amount of candles could change that, and despite the heat outside, no warmth penetrated Logarius’s sanctum.

“Tell me your plans for Alfred.” Philip said, clasping his gloved hands behind his back. “He is being bled dry. And as your second, it is only right that I know why.”

The great man’s lips drew into a thin line as he regarded Philip with something between disappointment and disdain. “He is a blood saint and is being treated as such. Camilla would not remove blood excessively. He is young. He is strong. He can support it.” 

“He’s barely fifteen.” Philip’s voice raised in pitch and volume. His knuckles tightened behind him. “And he nearly had a breakdown at the mere insinuation that he may have Ashen Blood once more. He cannot support it.”

“Mere adolescent neurosis.” Logarius said dismissively. “Alfred is the excitable type, and prone to such outbursts. He always has been. Console him when you feel it necessary.”

“What do you need so much blood for, Logarius?” Philip asked, dropping his hands to his sides with a rustle of studded leather and holy robes. “There’s only a handful of Executioners out in the field, and Doctor Camilla is more likely to reach for a bandage than a vial. What are you planning…” Philip paused, before adding, almost spitefully. “Master.”

“You have been my protege for too long to have not recognized my goals. _Our_ goals. I am ashamed of you.” Logarius said, his deep voice growing dangerous. 

“It’s supplies, isn’t it? For a siege?” Philip asked, uncaring. “You plan to storm Castle Cainhurst.”

Logarious barked a sharp laugh. Philip had been by his side for years, and he only now realized what their purpose was?

“What do you think you signed up for, lad? This is what I’ve worked towards since being unearthed! This is the purpose of the Executioners. Where have you been in all my lectures? In all my speeches? Standing beside me deaf?”

“You cloaked your motives in words of containment! I did not sign up for eradication!” Philip argued. “You mean to kill them all!”

Logarius slammed a massive, skeletal hand on the desk, his golden rings hitting the dark wood with a loud clang. He was floored. What blinders had this boy been wearing? He appeared as a man but had the thoughts of a child to believe the Vilebloods deserved anything but death.

“I have not been shy about it! You are my second in command! You, you of all people should know why everyone and every last Vileblood should be purged!” He rose from behind his desk, slowly moving towards Philip. 

“When a soldier contracts an infection, you do what you can to save the body.” He rumbled, drawing closer. “Without holy blood, when gangrene has taken their arm so fiercely,” Logarius held aloft one long, thin arm, clutching the forearm tightly, “That it can no longer be saved, you must remove that limb to save the man. The vilebloods have been beaten back, they have been contained, but they must be amputated from the body of humanity!” Logarius had Philip cornered against the closed heavy door, but Philip matched his gaze with a fire of his own. 

“The Vilebloods, wicked as they may be, are still people. King Cain must fall, but what of the innocent? Those infected unwillingly? The townspeople stolen from their homes, the servants, the children? Will you kill them too?!” Philip argued, refusing to back down.

“The Vilebloods stopped being people the moment Cain the First lifted the corrupted Chalice to his lips. They are tainted with unholy sin and blood, and cannot be saved. An infected oak tree drops infected acorns. The child of the oak is as ill as the parent by no fault of its own, but it must be culled to prevent the spread.”

“People aren’t trees!” Philip snapped. He was shouting in full force, but Logarius was deaf to him. “They’re people! Capable of containing their own illness, capable of being cured! Killing them doesn’t make you right-- it makes you a murderer--”

There was a crack as Logarius whipped out his arm and back handed Philip. The man fell to the floor, spinning first into the door and collapsing briefly on the ground. Philip fell to his knees, stunned and unable to speak or process what had happened. He thought, briefly, he felt the hot prick of tears in his eyes and the burn of the bruise forming on his face. 

“Know that it is my affection for you, Philip,” Logarius’s voice was deep, low, and threatening like a great beast’s growl. “That saves you from the consequences of your Heresy. Leave and do not return. Your Heresy is a danger to us all, and you endanger your once-brothers and once-sisters with your doubts so close to the hour of judgement. If I see you here again, if I hear any of my family speaking like you do, know that they and you will suffer the consequences of that Heresy.”

\---

“Philip?” Alfred rose as he heard the familiar sound of Philip’s boots on the dormitory floor. 

Philip looked at him, Alfred already halfway out of the bunk, and merely sighed. 

“I might be going away for a long while, Brother.”

Alfred furrowed his brows in confusion. Philip smiled sadly. Slow on the uptake as ever.

“Logarius has told me to leave, Alfred.”

Horror dawned on Alfred’s face. 

“Master Logarius has exiled you? Why?” He asked, his voice breaking slightly on the ‘why’.

“Calm down. You aren’t feeling well.” Philip said gently, gathering his things. Lacking any bags or luggage, he decided to use the large holy mantle of the Executioner as a rucksack. As an afterthought, he removed the overcoat of the Executioner robes, tossing the garments on the floor. 

Alfred gave out a small gasp, and immediately went to gather up and neatly fold the dropped clothes. Philip merely straightened his cotton undershirt. Thankfully, the summer uniform of the Executioners lacked the thick woolen sweater of the winter uniform.

“Alfred, it’s but cloth.”

“It is our holy mantle!” He argued. “What could you have possibly done to warrant this banishment?” 

“Questioned high and mighty Logarius and his intention. Challenged him on his own evil.” Philip said, setting the coins he had saved from his pay over the years in the makeshift bag.

“Evil? I must truly be ill, to be imagining you saying such things. Master Logarius is not evil! Is this because of the bloodletting? I wish to give my blood, truly!” Alfred looked feverish with denial, clasping the discarded overcoat with whitened knuckles. 

“That’s but the tip of the iceberg, Alfred.” Philip said, gathering up the cloth to form a bag. He briefly reflected on the lightness of it. 

“Alfred. Come with me. This place is evil. What Logarius wants is evil. Hell, I’d say the whole damn church is evil.”

Alfred covered his ears, shutting his eyes as if to further block out Philip’s words.

“No! How could you say such things about our family!” He burst out, proving that the words had indeed reached him.

“Family does not drain the blood of a mere boy!” Philip snapped. “Family does not plan to slaughter innocents along with the wicked!” He relented at the expression on Alfred’s face, a mixture of betrayal and hurt.

“Alfred, please. Come with me. I’m going to leave this awful country. I’ll go west, where blood is not more valuable than lives.”

“This is the only family I’ve ever known! I can’t believe you would cast it away like this, just because they take my blood!” Alfred shouted. Philip winced, hoping that none of the others of their class were near the dorms.

“Alright. I’ll go, then.” Philip gathered up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Instantly, he felt Alfred tightly hug him from behind.

“No! Please don’t go. It’s my fault, isn’t it? I’ll speak to Master Logarius! Please Philip, don’t leave!”

“Alfred, it’s not your fault. I choose this. I can’t follow this cause any longer, and nothing you can say to me or Logarius could change this.” Philip gently pried off Alfred’s grip-still strong, despite his recent weakening-from around his waist. He gently ruffled the boy’s hair, feeling himself get a bit teary as he noticed that Alfred was trying his very hardest not to cry. 

Gods, how could he tell Alfred that everything he knew and believed was wrong? Even now, he was still a boy, believing truly in the Executioner’s mission. 

“We will meet again someday, I promise. Stay safe.” Philip said. He could not tell what Alfred said in reply, as the boy had fallen into inelegant blubbering. He awkwardly patted him on the shoulder before leaving, and closed the door gently behind him.

\----

Philip had sought to slip out quietly, before dinner. He had a good sense of direction, and knew that he could possibly hitch a ride on a passing carriage to Yharnam, then find a way out of Yharnam for good. 

He had not expected to run into Bernice. 

“You damn idiot.” She said, stepping out from behind the gate, folding her arms. 

“Let me pass, Bernice.”

“I will. But I heard.”

“Eavesdropping on Master Logarius?”

“I’m here for my own goals.” Bernice waved a hand dismissively. “Not the dogma. You want Cain dead, don’t you?”

“Yes. But I can’t stand by and have the servants and children be slaughtered too.” Philip groaned with frustration. “Don’t think I’m doing this because I think King Cain and the other nobles aren’t evil. Logarius is going about it the wrong way. We need a revolution, not a massacre.”

Bernice nodded grimly. “My Hemwick Executioners will see to that when the time comes, then. I promise.”

“You would turn against Logarius during the siege to do the right thing?” Philip asked.

“Suppose I should have said that before you burned your bridges. The Hemwick crowd answers to me first, Logarius second. But I admire your morals. Shouldn't have been so rude, before.”

“I feel like I have been quite blinded.” Philip said, touching his forehead. “I only saw what I wanted to see.”

“Aye.” Bernice said flatly. 

“Is there anything I can do to help your cause, now? I meant to just ask Logarius to stop draining poor Alfred, and well...I got a bit cross, especially after what you said...Bernice?”

“Mm?”

“Please, look after Alfred. Logarius was right. He’s a bit excitable, but he’s got a good heart. I just feel it’s too easy for him to be led astray.”

“What, you’ll leave him in Logarius’s claws?”

“How could I tell him what we know? He-”

“Thinks the sun shines out of Logarius’s boney arse.” Bernice interrupted. Philip sighed. 

“Not what I would have said, but correct.”

“Suppose you both are the same, then.” Bernice looked out on the woods, thoughtfully. “You both saw a worthy crusade where there is none.”

“...Then I should return and share my epiphany-”

Bernice blocked his entrance back through the iron gates, looking stern. 

“You will do no such thing. By now, Logarius would have told everyone about your betrayal. Just leave.”

Philip stared at her for a moment, before shaking his head. 

“Brutally honest as always. I suppose It’s goodbye, then.” Philip bowed to Bernice, who hesitated before bowing in return. 

“Goodbye.” She said, before turning away from him, and walked down the path.

As the moon rose, Philip set out down the road to Yharnam, not even sparing a glance back at the Executioner’s workshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took a while.  
> Uh, IDK what to say here.  
> Enjoy?


	8. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Healing Church spirals, The Executioners are forced to depart for their planned Siege of Cainhurst early after their funding is cut due to Logarius's refusal to free Yhar'Gul from the wicked Menses Scholars.  
> In the Present, Quincy begins to theorize about Alfred's connection to the Hunter's Dream.

_ Nights passed and the moon grew close, swollen and red.It was claimed the god of the moon herself was holding audience with the life growing in Yharnam’s womb. Creatures clutched the apexes of towers and castles, staring at Ancient Pthumeria with a multitude of cold eyes. Unease spread that the sacred blood could not comfort. _

\---

“Hold on for a moment, dear hunter.” Quincy paused, watching Alfred disappear into one of Yharnam’s many alleyways.

Quincy waited patiently for Alfred, scanning the street for any beasts. The moment he and Alfred had left his rented room and returned to the streets, both had been ambushed by two starved, beastly dogs. The once empty rows of houses had probably attracted more beasts looking for prey, and the sounds of the dying doglike monsters had only attracted the twisted huntsmen. Quincy heard splashing coming from the alley, and peeked in to see what his companion was doing. 

Alfred had found a nearly full rain barrel, and was carefully washing the blood and grime from their last few encounters off his face and beard.

“Now’s hardly the time to worry about cleanliness.” Quincy remarked. 

“It makes me feel better.” Alfred said, wiping a bit of blood off his cheek. “Besides, you must be performing a toilet as well. Whenever we are separated, you come back looking cleaner then when I last saw you.”

Quincy sighed. 

“You believed me about the dream and stuff when I told you.”

“I saw you fall to Beasts and that despicable doctor, yet return unharmed. I cannot doubt my own eyes.” Alfred stated flatly, before dunking his whole head in the rain barrel. 

“Alfred! You don’t know what’s in that!” Quincy exclaimed as Alfred came up, shaking off the excess water and removing a handkerchief from his pocket to dry his hair and face.

“I’ll take a proper bath once this is over. The worst thing in there is probably some dead insects and grime. Now, about your sudden cleanliness.”

Quincy shrugged. “Whenever I’m sent back, my clothes are no longer damaged and I’m no longer covered in dirt and grime.” Alfred nodded. 

“I’m a bit envious.” He said. Quincy frowned, his eyes lingering on Alfred’s chest. Despite the Imposter Iosefka having torn through cloth and skin, the Executioner’s uniform was undamaged, and lacking any stain. 

“Did...did you change your robe?”

“No. I said this was the only one mostly intact-” Alfred’s eyes widened, putting a hand on where Iosfeka attacked him. “Quincy…” He started, staring at him with confusion, handkerchief still dabbing his cheek. 

“Did Iosfeka kill you?” Quincy asked, realizing how foolish the sentence sounded once it let his mouth. 

“She...I thought she had gotten the best of me, yes, but…”

“You somehow ended up back in Cathedral Ward.” Quincy jerked his head back at the sound of distant howling. 

“We have to get movin’. I think the beasts smell us here.” Quincy turned back. “Look, even if you get the Dream’s second chances or not, please stay careful, alright?” Quincy furrowed his brow. “I think I have an idea for a little experiment.”

\---years ago---

Amelia rose from her desk as Logarius entered. “Vicar.” He rumbled. 

“Logarius.” She responded, giving a shallow bow. The Pthumerian made no attempts to hide his slow survey of the room. Amelia had hardly changed the study from how Laurence had arranged it. Finally, Logarius set his eyes on Amelia.  Despite her youth, the years since Laurence's death had left her seeming rather careworn.  Despite having grown only a few inches since Logarius had met her, she carried herself with maturity and confidence.

“I was wondering why you had summoned me in person from the Executioner’s workshop.” Logarius’s voice barely hid a slight contempt. He, centuries old, having to bend to the whim of a mere child!

The Vicar sat back down, pushing back a wisp of blonde hair from her face. 

“I suppose news is slow in coming to the Executioners.” She said gravely. “You are unaware of what Micolash has done.”

Logarius rolled his eyes. “That giggling freak? What, has he found a new kind of celestial nematode?” The Vicar stared at him coldly, unamused. Logarius realized that despite her age making her one of Alfred’s peers, she was far more capable and worldly.

“Micolash and the School of Mensis have taken over the Yhar’Gul village. They openly use the citizens for their twisted experiments.” Amelia folded her hands neatly on the desk. “They ignore the power of the Healing Church and have declared themselves the sole heirs to the Cosmos.”

“Well. What do you need the Executioners for, then.” Logarius said flatly, stroking his beard.

“The Hunters have been disbanded, due to the disappearance of the Beasts after the tragedy in Old Yharnam, and for their crimes against our own people.” There was a slight catch in Amelia’s voice, and she touched the Golden pendant that hung from her neck. Logarius raised a heavy brow at her omission of Laurence in her recount of the Hunter’s crimes.

“The Holy Blades do not have enough numbers to stop the Mensis scholars. The Executioners are the only martial group in the Church left to take on this threat.” Amelia finished confidently, fixing Logarius with a determined stare.

“What is your plan, Vicar.” Logarius said, his voice impassive. 

“You and Henriett of the Holy Blades will take your combined forces to Yhar’Gul and clear out the Mensis Scholars and their abominations, then free the village and the people there from their twisted machinations.” Amelia said, pressing a dainty hand to an immaculately written plan on her desk. “The details are written here.”

Logarius reached forwards to take the paper. Amelia watched as he scanned it. 

“No.” He rumbled, dropping the paper on the desk.

“You refuse?” Amelia asked, her voice remaining mild.

“This does not concern the Executioners. We were formed to combat the Vilebloods, not maddened Scholars of the Arcane.”

“You would have good people suffer, Logarius?” Amelia said, rising from her seat. “You would refuse to serve your institution and country?”

“It is not our purpose.”

“It is a simple task.” Amelia said, opening the door. A tall woman entered, tipping her top hat to Amelia. 

“I have nothing more to say to you, Logarius.” Amelia said, nodding to the woman. “If you do not have it in your heart to liberate a town from evil, I will liberate you from the support and finances of the church. I will give you a week to send a message of compliance. Captain Henriett, dear, please see Logarius out.”

“Aye, Vicar.” Henriett turned, leaving without even making sure the Pthumerian was following. Logarius left, unsure of what had just transpired. Laurence had left a worthy successor indeed, one even more clever and cunning then he was. 

A few minutes later, Henriett returned, looking grim. 

“I do not know what we shall do now, Henriett.” Amelia admitted. “I cannot risk the Blades.”

“You played him well, Amelia. He can’t afford to lose funding, not if he wants to get rid of the Vilebloods. Give it a day, and we’ll have Yhar’Gul freed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. He won’t just abandon his passion project.”

\---

Bernice sat in the coach’s driver’s seat, idly watching the Yharnam citizens pass by. The Fountain that had once dominated the square had been removed in the years that had passed since she had last been in Yharnam. Squinting, she made out the writing on the monument that had replaced it. Resembling a grim stack of tombstones, the moment read: 

_ In memory of those who perished in Old Yharnam, to save us all from the Scourge of Beasts _

Bernice clucked, leaning back against the top of the coach. 

“Suppose that ‘In memory of that night we murdered our own’ wouldn't be very nice to say.” She murmured. 

“Bernice!” Logarius’s furious baritone broke the peaceful silence in the square, causing the pigeons and crows to fly off in fear. Bernice snapped back up, hiding her displeasure at the Pthumerian returning so soon. The people strolling in the square, gentlemen in their finest, women in fancy dresses, children reluctantly dolled up, all turned and gawked at the irate giant. Even the horses, who had peacefully been dozing, were startled.

Bernice groaned internally. Some of the ladies strolling by had been quite lovely, and she was hoping to have a moment to get to know one or two better before Logarius returned. Any hope of a pleasant interlude in her plans to overthrow Cainhurst had vanished the moment Logarius had bellowed.

“What happened, Master Logarius?” Bernice asked.

“The Church has betrayed us. Get going.” He hissed, stuffing his long body inside the carriage. While Bernice was not an expert in navigating Logarius’s temper as Philip once was, she knew when not to press. The horses did not need much urging to go on their way. 

“Damn it Philip,” She grumbled as the carriage bounced and rumbled along the untidy Yharnam Streets. “Why’d you have to go and muck it all up?”

\---

It had been two years since Philip had left. In time, the keening ache of loneliness for the older boy’s companionship had faded. Alfred had tried to grow closer to his fellow Executioners in his absence, but he eventually began to spend more time in solitude. The gulf between Executioner and Blood Saint was becoming too big of a gap to traverse. Gone were the days of brotherly roughhousing and games, the fear of hurting a source of the holy blood was too terrible to imagine.

Sprawled out on the lawn of the Workshop to take advantage of the last bit of sun on a fine autumn day, Alfred had been completely entranced by a book when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye through the iron gate that surrounded the manor. He joyfully sprang to his feet at the sight of Logarius’s returning carriage, checking his white church attire over for grass stains or dirt.

“Master Logarius has returned!” He called towards the Workshop, rushing to the gate to be the first to unlock it. 

Alfred’s sunny demnor quickly turned cloudy at the sight of Logarius’s grim face as the carriage passed him. Bernice caught his eye as she halted the coach, shaking her head and pressing a finger to her lips. He huffed at being non-verbally told he was a chatterbox, when he had not said a word!

Logarius stormed up the path like a tidal wave. The excited rush of Executioners who had come to greet their Leader quickly faltered as they too sensed his foul mood.

“How was Yharnam, sir?” Colin asked, his voice high and nervous. Logarius waited until Alfred and Bernice had caught up to his long legged, furious strides to speak.

“Vicar Amelia and the Church have betrayed us all. We have been cut from the funding and support of the Healing Church.” His eyes glittered with murderous anger in the dying sunset. “Executioners!” He roared.

The last few stragglers quickly rushed out onto the lawn. Logarius nodded in approval.

“Our holy mission must be completed far sooner than we previously planned. The new and ill prepared Vicar believes that by withholding our rightful tithes she can force us to veer from our righteous path.” 

The crowd went deathly silent once the meaning sunk in. Executioners looked at each other, confused and worried.

“No more funding?!” Bernice hissed in Alfred’s ear. He only nodded, wide eyed. Why would the Church turn on them like this?

“Executioners, it is by the Good Blood that we carry out our holy work. It is the Good Blood that allows us our strength, and it is only to that blood and to Oedon that we serve.” Logarius began with great strength, but his volume dwindled as he gained control of his flock. They were not sheep but the dogs that kept the sheep and fought the wolves, and he was the Master that guided them. It was his voice they would answer to, and he would let it ring to the very skies. “The Vicar believes that she holds our leash. She does not understand that we alone are the bulwark against the Vilebloods, and that no amount of withholding our rightful tithes, tithes taken so that we may protect the weak and the holy like herself, will grant her control over us. She cannot and will not veer us from our righteous path. We are not a pawn of her church there only to do her bidding.”

As he paused, the more rowdy of his students began to chant and stomp, Alfred cheering loud enough to nearly deafen Bernice. A rare smile pulled at his lips hidden in his beard. 

“For she believes we are her soldiers. The College of Menses has stepped outside of its bounds, and we are to keep them in line. The vicar before her would have controlled us just as she had we been any weaker. All this child has done is given us a date. A date by which we must march on Cainhurst! A date by which we will have succeeded in our holy mission! A date by which no more Vilebloods shall walk the earth!”

“You may fear,” Logarius continued, his voice rising in volume. “That we are unprepared. Fear not! We have no more limits imposed on us by the Church. All Executioners in the field will be recalled home. All hands will work together to bring the end of the Vilebloods! No traitors,” Logarius hissed that last word. “Vilebloods, or those weak in spirit will stop us!”

The assembled Executioners gave cries of derision, knowing that Logarius referred to the Church as much as the departed Philip. Despite being swept up totally in the performance, Alfred felt his heart twinge. Bernice touched his shoulder, a rare show of affection.

“Let the knowledge that the Vilebloods will be ended once and for all sustain you in the coming days!” As the crowd cheered, Alfred stared up at Logarius, starry eyed. Here was his chance to make his dreams come true. 

He never saw Bernice’s look of concern, then resignation. 

\---Present Day---

“I wish I had brought you here earlier.” Quincy admitted, stepping through the Archway that led into the chapel. Alfred paused before entering reluctantly. The smell of the incense was making his headache worse, and the glare of the multitude of candles stuck on the edges of the walls and in every nook and cranny and chandelier dazzled his eyes.

It was a relief seeing a few of Yharnam’s residents alive and huddled in the small Chapel, but his shyness towards entering had a long and justified history. Before Alfred had become a Hunter, he had been very much unwelcome by the citizens of Yharnam, and was downright loathed after joining the hunt. Hunters made the perfect scapegoats for the Church’s failings, as they had become the most visible part of the Church after the Vicar and the rest had retreated to Cathedral Ward, leaving the Hunters to take the ire and abuse. And Alfred, being obviously foreign as well as sadly mistrusted by his own fellow hunters, has been a particularly ripe target for abuse from Yharnam’s acidic citizens. 

“It’s alright now.” Quincy had sensed his suddenly shyness and reassured him, touching his arm. An elderly woman looked up from her seat at Quincy as they walked in, smiling. 

“Hello dearie, did you bring a friend home?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Quincy said, shooting Alfred a tired look. “Poor old girl thinks I’m her son.” He whispered. “I don’t want to upset her, so I just go with it. She hands out sedatives like candy, though.”

“Does your friend need anything?” She asked. Alfred stepped back in fear once he recognized her. The old woman was a known battleaxe, shrieking at the Hunters from her home during the hunt about how useless they were. Seeing the woman’s twisted features in such a mild expression, her wavery voice sweet and maternal, was perhaps one of the more disturbing things Alfred had seen that night.

“No, he’s fine.” Quincy said, guiding Alfred away.

“Come back if you need anything, dearie.” She said, before going back to holding her head in her hands. 

Alfred turned to see a healing church Nun perched upon a pile of rubble, appearing to be praying. 

“Hello Adella.” Quincy said. The Nun looked up at him, before going back to praying. She gave out a throaty giggle, staring at the floor.

Quincy sighed. “She’s gone mad too. I saved her from this awful place, full of these giant men with bags, and she gave me some special healing blood in return, from her own veins! ‘Suppose that’s a healing church thing.”

Alfred swallowed hard. 

“Yes, Blood ministry is a part of the Church’s practices.” He was beginning to want one of the Old Lady’s sedatives. 

“She called herself a Blood Saint. I think that’s a bit odd, but I don’t know much about these things.” Quincy walked up to the dias, thankfully not seeing Alfred’s face go pale. Alfred watched as Quincy knelt by a woman in a red dress, hunched over in pain on a fine chair. Alfred could only barely make out what Quincy said.

“Arianna, are you feeling any better?” He asked softly. The woman shook her head, her pale hair glinting in the candle light and gave out a soft groan. 

“Alright. Tell me if there's anythin’ I can do.” Quincy rose, dusting off his coat.

“Thank you, Dear.” Arianna said, pained. She did not even turn to look as Alfred joined Quincy up the stone stairs. 

“I see you are quite popular with the ladies here.” Alfred said, not realizing what he had said until the moment it had come out. Quincy barked a laugh while Alfred covered his mouth, ears red.

“I’m just being friendly.” He said, waving at a hunched man in a red ragged robe. Alfred watched embarrassment spread across Quincy’s face as he remembered that the man was quite obviously blind.

“Hello!” Quincy muttered, pulling up his collar to hide his blush from Alfred’s smirk. At least they were both equally sheepish about their own missteps.

The man looked up towards the source of the sound, revealing a rather ghoulish face and a smile of broken, crooked teeth.

“Hello! Welcome back, Hunter!”

“Don’t mind his appearance, he’s quite kind.” Quincy whispered. “Now, here is where our experiment begins.” He pointed to the center of the dias. 

“Now, tell me what you see.”

Alfred squinted at the floor. 

“I see dusty, immaculately carved flagstones, littered with ashes from the incense and dribbled with candle wax.”

“Damn.” Quincy sighed, folding his arms. “You won’t think I’m mad if I tell you what I see, yeah?”

“Everything tonight has been enough to drive a man mad, Quincy.” Alfred began fiddling with the Executioner’s gloves, feeling agitated. What on Earth was he supposed to see? Why was he missing whatever it was?

Quincy took a deep breath.“I see a strange lantern, trailing small chains with bells tied around the top, surrounded by little wizened fellows prayin to it coming out of the floor.”

Alfred stared at him, unsure of what to say. 

“I know, it sounds mad.” Quincy said. “But if I touch the strange lantern, it takes me to this kind of dream. There’s a field of flowers with a strange house, and this woman-no, a doll there, and this old man.”

“Are you quite alright, Quincy?” Alfred said, worried. Quincy gave him a nervous grin. 

“I’m fine. Look. I’ll show you. Take my hand, and maybe it will take us both there.”

“To the little house in the dream.” Alfred said, deadpan. 

“Yes.” Quincy said, extending his arm. Alfred took it, despite his reservations. Well, he was curious about how Quincy, and perhaps himself, had cheated death. Perhaps this dream space might hold the key to finding Cainhurst. 

Quincy slowly reached his hand down, touching something unseen. Alfred shielded his eyes as a flash of purple light suddenly exploded into his vision. For a brief moment, like the imprint of the sun on his retinas, he saw Quincy touching the top of a Lantern, surrounded by pale, deformed creatures that grasped at his sleeves and coat with great desperation. 

The light vanished suddenly as it had appeared, and Quincy had vanished along with it. Confused, Alfred looked around the Cathedral, still not seeing anything Quincy had described. 

“Oh, I hate it when he does that.” The old wizened man in red shook his head, somehow sensing Quincy’s vanishment. “Where does he go off to, now?”

\---years ago---

Late at night, long after the other Executioners had gone to their beds, Alfred slipped out from his bunk. Still fully dressed from the day, he had waited until all his peers were asleep before stealing down the hallway, his heart in his throat. 

It was said that elder Pthumerians never slept, and Logarius was very old indeed. Any Executioner suffering from insomnia who roamed the halls late at night would often see the warm glow of gaslight from under the heavy doors to Logarius’s office even in the earliest hours. Steeling his nerves by the door, Alfred took a deep breath before knocking. 

The pause was only a few seconds, but to the young man it might as well have been a lifetime before the wooden doors swung open. Logarius peered down at Alfred, his bearded face unreadable. 

“You should be in bed.” Was his only response to Alfred’s presence. 

“I could not sleep, sir.” Alfred managed, his voice betraying him with a high pitched crack.

“Indeed. In full Church attire, rather than night clothes.” Logarius said, not fooled by Alfred’s charade. “I understand if you are afraid for your fellows for the upcoming siege.” 

“Yes, sir.” Alfred humbly bowed. “I wish to give more then just my blood.”

Logarius gazed down at him, and began to close the door. Alfred’s foot shot out, stopping it. Logarius snorted at this tactic. 

“Hear me out, at least. You have been draining me of blood. I have stayed loyal, despite the terrible things Philip said about you! Please, just listen.”

“Very well.” Logarius said, after a heavy pause. “You may enter.”

Alfred stared in awe at the prototype wheel that adorned the office as he walked in, forgetting his purpose for a moment. 

“Well, what was it?” Logarius said sharply. Alfred shook his head quickly, to rouse himself from his brief daydream. 

“I wish to fight alongside my brothers and sisters.” He said, chin held high, bright green eyes filled with determination. 

“This again, is it?” Logarius said, sitting at his desk. Alfred did not falter. 

“Please, sir, was I not talented? Am I not true?” Alfred asked. Logarius dipped his head slightly. 

“I cannot lie to you, Alfred. You were one of my most talented pupils. You have a determination and loyalty that others lack-However!” Logarius interjected as the light of hope began to shine in the young man’s eyes. “Fate has made your blood holy, and to spoil your gift would be to spit in the face of the Gods.” He arose from his desk, approaching Alfred with long and quiet steps.

“You will stay behind here, supporting us in a way no other could. We all give our blood in some form or another for our crusade, but only you can open your veins so that your brothers and sisters can heal theirs.” 

“But sir-” Alfred protested. “Let me go to Cainhurst. Even if I do not fight the Vilebloods hand to hand, allow me to be there with my brothers and sisters!”

The Pthumerian knelt to meet Alfred’s eye at his own level, silencing him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Should a drop of the vileblood make its way and corrupt your divine gift, we would all suffer for it. You are a good lad, and under any other circumstances, you would have been my finest soldier.”

“Exactly-sir, you lack a protege, I could be-”

Logarius snapped back up, looming over Alfred, enraged. 

“My Protege? My protege? You think so highly of yourself?”

Alfred shrank back from Logarius, having never been on the receiving end of the Pthumerian’s anger. 

“Sir, I only meant-” He tried, only to be silenced once more by the furious Logarius.

“This delusion-It’s my fault.” Logarius rumbled.  “You are a fool to believe such a thing, and I am responsible for it. Perhaps I led you to believe that you might march beside us-- I humored your fancy, and I have led you astray.”

Tears pricked the corners of Alfred’s eyes, but he stood firm, trying not to shake.

“No longer! I will no longer allow such delusions to risk our saint. You will serve your role as a blood saint, and when I return from battle, you will serve as one properly. No more illusions that you can ever be an Executioner!”  Logarius wrenched open the doors, roughly shoving Alfred out of his office, watching the boy stumble back out into the hall.

“Never speak to me of this again!” He hissed, slamming the doors shut.”

Alfred stood, silent and shocked in the hallway, trying not to cry.

\---

“It’s dangerous.” Camilla argued. Logarius merely folded his hands, uncaring. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the crypt today, Camilla thought angrily. Ever since Logarius had called her into his office that morning, he had only stonewalled her with silence after making his demands.

“This much blood? For Oedon’s sake, he’s but a child.” She added. “If your shriveled heart had any humanity in it-”

“I am not human, Camilla.” Logarius snarled. “You have treated me as such since you began working here. Alfred will bounce back. I will not be unprepared when my Executioners march into hell! He has made it abundantly clear that he will give anything to help our cause.”

“Because he’s a stupid child that worships that ground you walk on!” Camilla sneered. “After this-after you lot kill the Vilebloods or whatever, I’m going back to Cathedral Ward. Without Vilebloods, there won’t need to be Executioners.”

“Very well. But that blood must be ready before we set off.”

\---

“Oi, that’s a bit much, Doc.” Colin winced as Camilla stuck another needle in Alfred’s arm. Alfred did not even wince, staring at the wooden floor boards. This was just another day for him, at this point. The rest of his life seemed to be an endless array of needle pricks, after his dreams were dashed once more. 

“I removed your splinter, Colin. You are free to leave anytime.” Camilla grumbled, holding the newly filled blood vial up to the light.

“Nah, think I’ll stay a bit and keep Alfred company.” Colin said, leaning against the wall. “You think a splinter from the Logarius Wheel is holy, Doc?”

“What a stupid question.” Camilla remarked, removing another vial of blood. Alfred had trouble thinking of it as his, now. 

“What do you think, Alfred, mate?” Colin asked, fiddling with his bandage.

“Oh, I don’t know, Colin.” Alfred said, eyes firmly trained on a crack in the floorboards. 

“Ah, well, it’s already been tossed now. Hope it’s not bad luck for the siege.”

The curtain to the clinic swung open with a jerk, and Logarius decked through the doorway. Colin quickly bowed, surprised to see the Ptumerian. 

“You may go, Colin.” Logarius dismissed him with a wave of his massive hand. The Executioner bowed once more, and scurried out. 

Alfred quickly turned his head away from Logarius, pretending not to see or notice him. The Pthumerian looked over the row of vials Camilla had laid out on the table, nodding his head approvingly. 

“You gave all this?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.” Alfred said, still not meeting his gaze. 

“Still ain’t right.” Camilla hissed, low enough for only Alfred to hear. 

A few more moments passed in silence. 

“I am proud of you, Alfred.” Logarius said softly. Alfred looked up to see the Pthumerian, smiling at him fatherly. This was the Logarius he knew. The kind father figure. 

“Thank you, Master Logarius.” He said gratefully.

“I was quite harsh on you.” Logarius stood by the room’s window, gazing out on the lawn. The trees were shedding their leaves, leaving the woods outside a barren scene of grasping branches and grey trunks. Was there a hint of regret in his voice?

“Perhaps, when I return, I shall rethink your role.”

That last sentence kept hope burning in Alfred’s heart long after Logarius left the room, and long after he watched the golden procession of Executioners leave.

\---

“Take care of yourself, Alfred.” Bernice clasped his hands in a rare show of affection. Camilla had set him in a chair on the front lawn to watch the Executioners leave, unwilling to let him stand after such a dramatic blood drawing

“I will-but there's no need to worry, there's no way the Executioners will fail! I’ll see you again soon!” Alfred protested. Bernice frowned, her eyes roving over the thick bandages on both of his arms. 

“You never know what will happen.” She said grimly, placing the Ardeo on her head. 

Executioners waved to Alfred as they passed, following the massive figure of Logarius, clad in his shining golden robe, wielding an enormous Scythe. As the last Executioner filed through the gates, Alfred felt his blood begin to rush. He attempted to stand from his chair, only for his legs to buckle under him. The last thing he heard was Camilla’s scream. 

“He’s gone and blacked out!”

\---Present day---

Quincy took in the smell of the white flowers, gazed up at the sky, at the unearthly spires that rose from the clouds that surrounded the fields of flowers, and surveyed the graves that stood about the old house. 

“Shit.” He sighed, clenching his disappointingly empty hand. 

“Welcome back, Good Hunter.” The Doll bowed. At first, Quincy had been incredulous that the woman that had welcomed him to the dream was, infact, a doll, but after she had clasped her hands to his own to ‘embolden his sickly spirit’ he had seen the clever joints and construction of her delicate wooden hands. An unnaturally tall woman dressed in finely made clothes, her face shining with the sheen of porcelain was the perfect inhabitant of such a strange place

“Why couldn’t Alfred come here? He’s a Hunter, right? Don’t they all come to the dream?”

“Only the ones that are allowed in.” The Doll said plainly. “I know you desire your friend to dream, but he cannot enter this place.”

“Why?” Quincy asked. “He came back from death, just like I did.” The Doll nodded. 

“Your friend is a part of the Dream, just like you are. But he is not able to dream like you do. He is connected, but it is fraught. He is a man on the very verge of sleep, on the very edge of dreaming.” She replied, cryptically. 

“Well, it’s a relief that Alfred won’t be dying anytime soon.” Quincy said, sitting on the wall of the stairs. The Doll looked down on him, her face grave.

“I’m afraid that is not the case. Any death could be his last, and fully sever his connection.” She said somberly. 

“Well. Shit.” Quincy massaged his temples. “Bet he’s awfully confused right now.”

The Doll merely nodded once more, turning her head back to gaze into the cloudy distance. Quincy did the same. 

The massive spires that reached from the sea of clouds below were like trees in a sparse forest, but lacked any branches or leaves. Quincy wondered what lay above or below the clouds. 

“What is this place, really?”

“A dream.” The Doll said simply, in a tone that brokered no further questions. They continued to sit in silence for a while, Quincy grateful for some needed rest.

“Look...this is not like one of them stories where one second here is an hour in the real world, right?”

The Doll tilted her head. “I know not what you mean.”

“...What does it matter, this night has been a week long, anyhow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, we are getting into the stretch that I have things written for already! So the rest of the fic should update smoothly. I did not think it would be this long, but it seems we are still less then halfway through Alfred's journey here.  
> SenatorWiggles was a great help as always for Logarius and for editing my fic. I don't know what I would do without them. Now, back to work on the next chapter, where shit goes DOWN.


	9. Butchery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Executioners embark on their journey to Cainhurst, and Alfred's life takes a turn for the worse. In the present, Quincy finds a mysterious letter that doubles as the key to Cainhurst, as well as Alfred's eventual destruction.

_Whispers began to ripple throughout Pthumeria. The Queen’s pregnancy was troubled. Was Divine Mergo a mere fantasy? The stalwart supporters of the Queen rebuked any who spread such lies, but even the noble guard captain of the Queen’s own, his sharp eyes and ears could not find each whisperer. All he could do was comfort the Queen as the time for her birth time drew close._

\---Many years ago---

A strange sight was beheld by the inhabitants of Hemwick on one foggy late autumn morning. Windows opened, curtains were drawn back, curious heads peeked out doorways as a multitude of men and women marched down the main road of the village, their strange helms glinting through the fog. Each carried a large and ornate wheel, adding to the bizarreness of the scene.

At the head of the procession strode Logarius, golden robes flowing behind him as he led his small army towards their destination, his head easily visible from second story windows.

“Blimey, what’s that, a giant?”

“What's all that noise?”

The startled cries and gossip of the confused townsfolk did not seem to reach the ears of the marchers, who merely continued straight ahead, a sea of blue-gray and gold behind their gigantic leader. Anyone not indoctrinated in the Executioner’s dogma would have found it quite comical, an army of golden cone wearing, wheel burdened warriors following their impossibly tall, gilded leader. If Alfred had been present at the scene, instead of laying quite unconscious from blood loss in a stuffy clinic, he would have been moved to tears at the radiance of it all.

Unlike our misguided hero, the people of Hemwick held no such delusions.

“Heavens, what’s that on their heads?”

“Yharnam Church, looks like. Why’re they heading towards the castle?”

“Fools brought a load of wheels, but no carriage, haha!”

“Looks like trouble for Cainhurst. Good! Sick of sending those leeches tribute.”

“Trouble for Cainhurst is good news for Hemwick!”

A few scattered cheers rang out. A few of the Executioners looked around from under their helms, waving to the assembling crowds, but a chilly glare from Logarius set them straight.

They were here for justice, not heroics.

A wild cheer rose when the crowds saw the massive, gilded battering ram the last Executioners hauled. Hemwick was a land torn between the power of Cainhurst Castle and the Yharnam Church, and they had little love for either. The King of the Vilebloods demanded tributes and ruled poorly, only sending a few of his Knights to deal with the roaming flea-beasts. The idea that the decedent nobles of Cainhurst castle might have to deal with a siege was delightful to the people of Hemwick.

The cheering people of Hemwick were the last living souls to see the radiant Executioners march past the Obelisk, down the long bridge across the Straitside cliffs, towards the gates of Cainhurst. 

The blows of the battering ram rang throughout the village, continuing long into the night. The people rejoiced when the din ended. The Executioners had breached the walls! Hurrah, they would certainly teach those Vilebloods a lesson! Hooray for the Healing Church!

No one in Hemwick or Yharnam would dare near the Castle while the battle raged inside. Those possessed of morbid curiosity would train spyglasses to the castle’s roof and windows for a glimpse of the chaos, which all too often, they saw, shocking them silent. 

The waters of the Strait that Cainhurst castle used as a moat turned red. Those who dared watch the castle spoke of broken bodies being thrown into the ocean from the Castle roof. Strangest of all, some witnesses claimed to see the Executioner fighting each other. 

No one cheered for the Executioners anymore. Reality had set in. Sure, the Cainhurst Royalty had not been responsible rulers, but other than demanding tributes, the King had left them alone, yes? The people of Hemwick prayed for the Executioners to leave. In the vacuum left by the Vileblood’s absence, the damn Healing Church would no doubt move in and take over their little town, which had enjoyed some independence from Yharnam.

Finally, all activity at the castle stopped. The town held its breath. Would the Executioners emerge as swiftly as they came, victorious from the Castle? Or would they then destroy Hemwick village as surely as they had destroyed the Vilebloods? Men and women began to stockpile food, weapons and farming equipment, and stayed watchful for any invasion. 

Then the bridge exploded.

The long bridge to the Castle had stood there since before Hemwick had sprang up outside Yharnam and Cainhurst. Cainhurst Castle had been built long before, during Pthumerian times, it was said. The ancient bridge, thankfully unoccupied at the time, as Hemwick’s sons and daughters knew enough to stay away from a warzone, must have been rigged with gunpowder to explode.

In the stunned silence, whispers began to circulate. Had the Vilebloods and Executioners completely eradicated each other? The bodies that washed up on the cliffside shores were of Executioners and finely dressed Vileblood nobles alike. 

The final act of the drama came during a brutal noctural blizzard that had appeared without any warning, a fortnight after the Executioner’s arrival. One curious man focused his spyglass to the roof of the Castle as the snows arrived, wishing to behold the scene of battle one last time before the snows started. What he saw made him call over all those in vicinity to brave to storm to peer up at the Cainhurst roof.

Those without spyglasses could spot a golden glint on the distant roof, dusted with powdery snow. Visible to those prepared, glasses trained on the ancient roof of Cainhurst, Master Logarius emerged from the castle with a purposeful stride, a jewel encrusted crown gleaming in his hand. 

“The old bastard has King Cain’s crown!”

“Did the executioners win, then?”

“Why would they blow out the bridge? Hold on, there's a throne on the roof. What’s he doin’?”

Logarius stood before the throne, slowly raising the crown above his head. 

“He’s cornatin’ himself.”

“Great, we finally get rid of King Cain, now we have to deal with the giant. Nice try getting tithes with the bridge out, idiot.”

“Hold on, the storm’s getting worse.”

A collective cry rang out from the watching Hemwick villagers as Logarius lowered the crown onto his head, white hair, jewelry and golden robes fluttering in the strengthening breeze, the storm swirling around him and the castle, finally blocking it from sight. The last anyone saw of the old Pthumerian was him slowly lowering himself to sit upon the throne. 

The blizzard, rumored to have been created by Logarius, raged for a week. Hemwick Village was deeply snowed in, and try as they might, no one could catch even a glimpse of the castle in the storm.

When the blizzard cleared, the villagers swept snow off their front doors and emerged into the frozen world outside their homes, they beheld a shocking sight.

Castle Cainhurst, a building that had stood since the time of Pthumeria, had vanished.

\---

It had been one of the worst months of Alfred’s life. He had prayed endlessly for news of Logarius’s success and return. The respite from blood drawings was welcome, despite how guilty he felt about it. The bruises on his arms slowly faded, and color returned to his face. 

Unfortunately, his returning vitality only meant an increase in the gnawing anxiety that waiting brought. Alone in the Executioners Workshop, with only a sullen Doctor Camilla for company, Alfred waited. He studied the left behind books, paced endlessly, and tried to ease his increasingly troubled thoughts. There was no way the Executioners could fail, could they? 

Desperate for any respite from his worries, Alfred made small forays into the woods about the Executioner’s Workshop. Always having been one to abide the rules before the Executioners and Logarius departed, the thrill of doing something harmlessly against direction was almost enough to distract from the stress of the dearth of news and guilt from being where he should not.

Walking parallel to the dirt road through the increasingly bald trees as fall went on, Alfred jumped at every carriage and traveler that passed by to see if it was indeed a messenger or a forerunner of the Executioners, returning home.

Each time, he would watch through the trees as they would pass by the Workshop entirely, leaving him sullen and lonelier than ever.

So isolated was he, there was no way the rumors circulating Cathedral Ward and Yharnam could have reached his ears. Murmurs that the Executioners had been unsuccessful.

‘Those Vilebloods, they have tricks up their sleeves. Magical weapons and blades that cut faster than you can blink. A few dozen men and women with clumsy wheels, what can they do?’ Was the thought, until news of the bridge to Cainhurst’s destruction came, along with stories of the bodies washing up the distant shore of the Strait, blue robed Executioners and Cainhurst Nobles tossed about in the surf, thrown into the waves. The most eerie and unexplainable news of all, was Cainhurst Castle’s disappearance. 

A messenger was dispatched to the Workshop to relieve the Executioner’s doctor and staff of their duties. 

So Alfred waited. Day after day, night after night. He would be made a proper Executioner at last, he hoped. Oh, If only Philip had not left, but at least Bernice would be proud of him. He would become Master Logarious’s new protege, certainly, once he showed Master Logarious his skills!

This was his thoughts, before the news that would utterly destroy him finally arrived.

\---

It happened on a gray day in early winter, several weeks after the Executioner’s marched off, a week after Logarius’s self coronation, a fact that remained unknown to our miserable hero. A solemn knock rang through the halls of the abandoned workshop halls, echoing off the high beamed ceilings. Alfred immediately rose from his quiet prayer in his room, body tense as he listened for another knock, not even daring to breath.

He took off running towards the door before the second knock finished echoing.

The messenger, a dour faced man dressed in black robes jumped back as one of the heavy doors swung open, greeted by the sight of an excited, out of breath young man. Alfred’s face fell instantly the moment he realized that it was not the Executioners having returned, but he regained his composure, carefully fixing his hair. 

“Ah! You must be here to tell of our success! And why the Executioners and the Good Master Logarius has not returned yet, yes? Are they facing difficulties in returning? Oh! They must be celebrating in the Cathedral Ward! Shame on them, leaving me behind with no news until now. Ahaha! I was worried sick! Losing sleep and all! I’m glad all's well that ends well and evil was defeated! Hoorah!” 

The messenger gave a deep sigh, dragging his hands down his lined face. He was not paid enough for this.

“Son...you aren’t going to like what I’m about to tell you.”

\---

“No! How could this be? Impossible! Impossible!” Alfred cried out. “Surely, there must be some mistake!”

Camilla sat at the massive table, stone faced as Alfred paced circles around it. 

“I told him not to go. Not enough men. Not enough resources, and almost winter…”

“This must be a trap. A trap by the vilebloods! No, the church is lying! They-my family cannot be dead! They can’t be dead!”

“Gods, the poor Third years.” Camilla buried her head in her hands. 

“They can’t be dead. They can’t be dead.”

“Damn you, Logarius. Taking young, innocent lives with you on this fool’s crusade.” Camilla hissed through tears. “Three dozen lives lost. Oh yes, the Vilebloods are dead, but at what price, Logarius. The Executioners and Vilebloods, both dead on the same sword. Blood idiot.”

“It cannot be. It cannot-” A loud crash echoed through the dining hall. Camilla sprinted to where Alfred lay prone on the floor, dazed. 

“Come on, boy. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Camilla gripped his arm, pulling his uncooperative body upwards, grunting at the exertion. 

“Tell me it’s a lie, Camilla.” Alfred whispered, as the doctor left go of his arm, letting his upper body fall back to the floor. His green eyes were clouded, gazing at nothingness. 

“It ain’t a lie, you daft idiot. Logarius made a mistake, gambled with lives, and now your fellows are dead.” She spat. “I don’t have time for teen dramatics. You knew what they were getting into.”

“Not Master Logarius!” Alfred said hoarsely. Camilla stared down to see the tears starting to flow. Reality was finally starting to set in for the poor fool, she thought.

“Everyone can die, even magical giants. The messenger said this place is being decommissioned. We have to be out of here in a fortnight. There’s no more need for executioners.” 

“I should have died as well.” Alfred cried out. 

“What good would that be?” Camilla snapped. 

“I would be a martyr, just like the rest!” 

“Pointless! All of it! It’s pointless!” Camilla thundered, stepping over his body. “You can lay there like a big lump, or get ready to leave this place. You got family, right?”

“My family was the Executioners!” Alfred rose, steadying himself on a chair. “I have none!”

The Doctor threw up her hands, leaving Alfred to collapse and desperately weep.

“Master Logarius, Bernice, Colin,...am I never going to see you again?”

\---

Passage of time was meaningless. The days were a tear soaked blur, until the time came where it seemed Alfred had no more tears left to weep. Empty of all emotions and thoughts, he stared up at the ceiling, feeling profoundly hollow. The empty bunks in the room made his heart ache worse, seeing the decorations and abandoned belongings. 

Camilla cared enough to keep him alive, at least.

“Are you trying to die? Get out here and eat something!” She had shouted at the door, before entering and yanking him out from under the sheets. 

Whatever the food had been, he could not remember as he feebly fed himself, Camilla scolding him all the while. It must have been something she cooked herself, the chef had left the moment the news broke.

“An entire day locked away, no food, no water. What the hell are you trying to do? You aren’t one to miss meals. Do you know how fast you can dehydrate with how much you’ve been crying?”

He mechanically ate, eyes glazed over as he stared at Logarius’s massive chair.

“You can’t afford to weaken now. You’ll be going back to the church as a blood saint in less than two weeks.”

Logarius would sit at the head of the table during dinners, speaking to his Executioners much like a proud father would to his many children. Now, the table was as empty as Alfred felt.

“You’ve been through quite the shock. They’ll give you a day or so to recover. It will be quite different from here. No more wrestling in the muck or fist fights. I hope you can make a respectable Blood Saint.”

Bernice would sit at his left, Philip, before he was excommunicated, at his right. Oh, Alfred had dreamed of taking the right hand seat after Philip left, but Logarius had always refused.

“You’ll have to clean yourself up, too. Your hair looks like a bird’s nest, and there are practically trenches under your eyes. Don’t want the Church to think you have Ashen Blood again.”

Snow continued to fall outside. The yard was covered, the flowers and bushes having vanished under the snow. Logarius had carefully shook the snow off each day to keep the flower bushes from being damaged by the weight of the snow, but in his absence they were fully bowed over. Another thing destroyed and lost forever.

“Are you listening to me? You need to be prepared to be a Blood Saint for the church in two weeks-”

“I will not.” The words came out of his mouth, but he had to wonder if they were truly his. 

“You will not?” Camilla said, staring at him sternly. Alfred rose from his seat, letting the chair fall behind him with a loud clatter. 

“No one will take my blood again.” He said flatly.

“You would deprive the church of communion?” Camilla asked, her face unreadable. 

“It’s my damn blood!” Alfred shouted. “It’s my damn blood-not the Church’s, not the God’s-It’s mine! I won’t let anyone else take it just because it’s blessed!”

Camilla laughed shrilly. Alfred stared at her, aware of how he was shaking. His head ached, his eyes itched from crying, and he felt sore and tired, tired of existing. Camilla collected herself, smiling without mirth.

“Good! Good boy! Finally thinking for ourselves, are we?”

Alfred glared at her, feeling the emptiness drain and be replaced with something harder-rage. 

“It disgusts me. Children used as communion for blood, all because they are blessed with healing blood. Of course, a job is a job, and I will perform my duties, even if I do not agree with it...”

“I’m not a child!” He protested.

“You are hardly a day over sixteen at most, boy. Still a child. The Church has had control over you since day one, haven’t they. Did you ask for any of it?” Camilla snapped.

“It was worth it!” Alfred shouted, his voice cracking. “A life where I never was part of the Executioners would be a life devoid of purpose!”

“You are one interesting case.” Camilla sighed. “I’ll cut you a deal. You don’t want to be a Blood Saint anymore then, yes? Blood Saints belong to the Church for life.”

“I’d rather die, then! I’ll see my family again!”

“Do you mean it? Or do you say that because dear Logarius got deep in your head?” Camilla cut off Alfred as he furiously opened his mouth to respond. “Don’t accuse the hand that feeds you of blasphemy. I’m your only ticket out of being Communion for the church for the rest of your life, boy.”

Alfred tried to steady his breathing, gripping the edge of the table. “Very well. What do you suggest?” He asked, his tone clipped. 

“I’ll tell the Church that the Executioners brought their blood saint along. That you died in Cainhurst, so you can go live as a normal man.”

“Where am I to go, then?” Alfred said softly. The anger was gone, the emptiness seeping back in.

“You don’t have family. I can offer you a job with my brother, in the outskirts of Yharnam. He has a butchershop, and he will probably offer a job to an outsider if I put in a word for you.” Camilla crossed her arms. Alfred looked down at the table. “You have recovered well from the blood drawings this last month, aside from these last few days. Finally getting meat back on your bones.”

“Thank you.” He mumbled. 

“Start your life over. Get a job. Find a local girl who won’t barf when she sees your outsider face. Forget about the Executioners. They don’t exist anymore. They don’t need to exist anymore.”

\---

As harsh as Camilla was, Alfred felt that she had offered him a blessing. A new life, untied to his duties as a Blood Saint. In a swirling mental fog, he had taken the meager belongings he had, and wordlessly accepted a set of everyday clothing that Camilla had found for him.

“You almost look normal.” Was Camilla’s only observation. Removed from the holy white Church attire, Alfred felt exposed, like a part of him had been stripped away. 

It was what he had chosen. He did not want to be a Blood Saint anymore. Despite it all, he felt that his shackles had been removed, at the very least. He found himself touching the fading bruising on his arms from the pricks of the needle. If Camilla saw, she said nothing.

Alfred remained silent during the cart ride, containing Camilla, himself, and a cartful of her tools and medical supplies to the outskirts of Yharnam, eyes glazed as he watched the Executioner’s workshop slowly roll into the distance, swallowed by the woods and barren trees. The returning birds and the hints of buds on the branches peeking out from under the light snow promised that spring would come soon. Alfred mourned the death of the flower garden before the Workshop, perishing without any care.

The air seemed to grow thicker and warmer as they left the woods behind, passing by rundown houses and crumbling stone walls dusted with snow. Alfred peered up at the looming skyline of Yharnam above, trying to see anything he recognized.

“It’s a damn dump, isn’t it?” Camilla snorted, urging the horse onward. “Anyone who’s anyone lives in the Cathedral District. Spent my whole life getting away from this place.”

Alfred coughed as an acrid scent hit his nostrils. Camilla laughed. 

“That’s the tanneries, boy. You’ll have to get used to the piss scent to live here.”

“They use urine in the leather making process to remove the hair from the skin.” Alfred mumbled, recalling one of the books he had read. 

“Don’t act too smart around here, boy. You want to blend in.” Camilla advised. 

“Surely the people here would know about the tanning process.” Alfred protested. 

“That’s not what I mean. I mean the fancy talk, the chatter. They don't like that. They don’t like outsiders either, so just have them hate you for one thing at a time.”

Despite Camilla’s grim words, Alfred tried to keep some optimism. Looking out on the wethered streets, he wondered if they were on the same planned roads that had existed since the time of Ancient Pthumeria. He had read that several of the old walls around Yharnam were leftover from that time, and some of the city had been built precisely on top of the ruins.

Camilla elbowed him in the ribs, startling him out of his daydream. 

“We are here. Get off.” She said, stopping the cart without any ceremony. Alfred half climbed, half fell off the cart, his boots squelching in a noxious mixture of slush and horse dung when he landed gracelessly. 

“My brother’s down the street.” Camilla said, pointing to a rough looking building in an equally rough looking row of houses, adorned with a cracked and faded carved sign that may have resembled a pig at one point.

“Don’t you wish to see him?” Alfred asked.Camilla gave out a cackle. 

“He’s a dreadful bore.” She said, tossing Alfred his bag. “I’d sooner chat with a beast.”

They both paused, Alfred unsure of what to do, and Camilla seeming to hesitate for a moment. She made a face like she had taken a bite of a lemon, then gave out a heavy sigh. She pressed an envelope in his hands.

“Look, I hope for the best for you. Stay out of trouble, and avoid the Healing Church. They ain’t any good. Getting mixed up with the Old Blood, nothing good comes of it.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Alfred gave a slight bow. Camilla chuckled. 

“You are the decent sort, for an outsider.” She said, snapping the reins. The horse obeyed, trotting through the slush. Alfred watched as she passed the butchershop and hollered something at the facade, then turned the corner and vanished from his life forever. 

Avoiding puddles and dung as he wandered to the shop, Alfred snuck a peek inside the envelope to find a small amount of coins. He smiled. 

“Suppose Doctor Camilla is a decent sort...for a rather mean doctor.”

\---

The feeling of being freed from the responsibilities of a blood saint and hope at the new opportunities he had been given kept Alfred warm during the short walk, until he knocked on the shop’s door. The ancient door swung open, having him come face to face with the bellowing, crooked-faced shopkeeper and his three leering apprentices dawdling behind him. Alfred stepped back in fear and surprise. Whatever words the Butcher was saying were unrecognizable to his ears.

The massive man grabbed his arm with no fanfare, yanking him forwards up the uneven steps while the three boys jeered behind him. Alfred yelped as he felt the man pinch his arm practically to the bone. 

“Unhand me, sir!” He managed out, his voice cracking shrilly. The apprentices guffawed behind the Butcher.

“He squeaks like a boy!” 

“Hah! Listen to him! Sounds like a maiden in a storybook!”

“We have to work with an Outsider? No one will want to buy our meat now!”

“He has outsider diseases!” The smallest wailed.

“Shaddup you lot!” The Butcher hollered, silencing the boys. “My sister said he’d be good at chopping, ‘n his bones ‘n meat are good.”

“His meat’s good? Lets chop him up!” The boys pushed past the shop owner, who released his vicelike grip.

“Outsider boy, five coins a pound! Plenty of coins from this one!” Alfred drew back fearfully as the three boys circled him like hyenas on the narrow street, slush filled street. The butcher just watched passively from the doorway, arms crossed with a hint of a smile on his brutish face.

“He won’t be sleeping in our room, right? We’ll catch somthin’.”

“Look at that straight nose an’ eyes! Disgustin’!”

“Ugh, he’s hideous!”

“I-I beg pardon, if we are to be working together, let's just cooperate peacefully then? I do not want to cause any trouble-” Alfred started, having already forgotten Camilla’s advice in his worry. He realized he had been backed up into the wall on the other side of the narrow street. He felt the rough brick behind him, realizing there was no escape.

“Oh look, he’s _educated_.”

“What should we sell him as? Big Nosed Educated Outsider boy?”

“Please, there’s no need for conflict!” Alfred managed out. The largest boy drew close, leering at him. Making sure not to be seen by the Butcher, he conspicuously pulled out a knife, showing it to Alfred point first. 

“You’ll be meetin’ this if you don’t stay humble, outsider.” He growled, brandishing it at Alfred. The boy smirked as Alfred flinched back fearfully.

“Boys! Enough playing. Get back to work!” The Butcher bellowed, causing the three to quickly run back into the shop in moments. Alfred hardly had time to breathe a sigh of relief before the Shopkeeper grabbed him roughly by the collar.

“I can tell you’re going to be a real trouble maker.” He growled. 

“Sir-I did not do anything!” Alfred begged. The Butcher snorted, releasing him roughly. 

“Everytime an Outsider moves their lips, they lie. Get in the shop, boy.”

Dazed, Alfred followed. He wondered if Camilla had really done him any favors.

When he was given a fresh carcass straight from the slaughterhouse, he knew that his shackles had only been replaced, not removed.

He had tried hard. He had watched all the steps closely, but when it became his turn to remove meat from the bones, to remove the skin, to drain the blood, he found himself growing sick.

“Sir, I must politely request...I am unsure if I can continue to clean the carcasses.” Alfred stammered out, swallowing hard. The Shop owner stared at him in disbelief.

“You trying to trick me with those educated words? Trying to get me to have you at the front of the shop, scaring away my customers? Swallow your bile, boy. Even an outsider can chop up a few gibs. If you yak one more time, I’ll have you thrown out in the street!”

Nightfall offered no reprieve. Alfred was indeed not allowed to sleep in the same room as the other apprentices. Instead, he was led up a rusted ladder to the drafty attic room with sparse furnishings. A tiny window on the wall was nearly coated in cobwebs and dead flies, with a small, stained bed beneath it.

“Perfect room for an outsider. Isolated, so you won’t spread any diseases ya got.” The butcher said, before slamming the door.

So Alfred had to adjust. Day after day, he worked. With exposure and repetition, he slowly improved at butchery. The queasiness faded, and his hand went from clumsy to practiced. The cruel Butchershop owner even seemed to be somewhat impressed, not like he would admit it.

The other apprentices tormented him, blaming him for anything that went wrong, dulling his knives, tossing bladders and other organs at him when the Butcher’s back was turned. Alfred’s life improved significantly after a brilliant idea came to him.

If he was the hated, diseased outsider, he would play the part. Everytime one of the horrible apprentices came close, Alfred would loudly, and dramatically begin to cough. The apprentices would scream and squeal much like the pigs that ended up under their knives as they ran away. Finally, left with some semblance of peace, Alfred’s life went from unbearable to just miserable as the apprentices elected to ignore him entirely. Spring came, then summer, then fall once more.

The only solace to the gritty, dirty life of chopping meat, cleaning carcasses, and time alone in the sad attic room was wandering the outer Yharnam streets away from the shop and the gossiping, roughhousing apprentices. Most of the shops were sad, ricketty affairs, hurt by the destruction of old Yharnam’s effect on their customer base, but Alfred was able to find a few hidden gems. A bakery down the street from the Butchershop brightened his days considerably, the shop owner being of the philosophy that Outsider coin was as good as native, and the prices could even fit into his meager pay as a Butcher’s apprentice. 

The biggest provider of solace, however, was a worn old Bookstore. Alfred had been fearful to go in at first. His lifelong love of reading had been halted when he had to leave the Executioners, no longer able to spend his free time in the sizable library, and he had been so wracked with grief that taking books with him had been far from his mind when he departed. His biggest fear was that he would be chased off the moment that he set foot inside. 

After passing the store for the fifth time on his aimless afternoon walk, he finally steeled himself, formulating a plan. Carefully stowing away the bag of half priced pastries in his worn coat pocket, he slowly drew close to the door. Surely it would not creak if he opened it slowly enough, right? He would just quietly pop in, browse the shelves, then vanish before the shop owner would emerge.

Smiling to himself about the fact that he could rejuvenate his only hobby, Alfred slowly opened the door. 

_Ding-ding ding!_

“Oh no-” Alfred braced himself for the inevitable, squeezing his eyes shut. “Forgive me-I’m not diseased or anything! I was merely curious! I’ll leave now!”

“Don’t do that, lad. Why would I chase off today’s first customer?”

Alfred opened his eyes to see a fellow Outsider before him. He breathed a sigh of relief. The man was thin and willowy, with dark hair. His beard was peppered with gray.

“It appears you’ve been receiving the usual Yharnam welcome.” The man chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “Ever since I came here from the East, well, things have been quite unwelcoming.”

“From the East?” Alfred asked, curious. 

“Yes. I’ve lived here for a year or so, and was able to buy this shop from the elderly owner. It’s not terrible here, but the people, well. I was hoping the unfriendliness would go away after the first few months.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life.” Alfred admitted. “Yharnamites hate anyone with a face that doesn’t look like it’s been through the wringer.”

“Strange...the Vicar lacks the Yharnam look.” The man walked behind the counter, stroking his beard. 

“The prejudice has its own internal logic.” Alfred said, raising his hands in defeat. 

“Feel free to browse, friend.” The man said, nodding before going to write something on the counter. 

Soon, trips to the bookstore became the highlight of Alfred’s day. The place was usually and thankfully empty, but the books were fascinating. He could spend hours in one of the many weathered chairs among the stacks, completely absorbed in one of the many novels, historical dramas, or romances. The smell of old books and dust from one of the novels he would purchase and bring home was enough to give him comfort when he opened them in his meager attic room.

After the first three visits, Alfred realized he had never told the man his name. After introducing himself, the shop owner smiled. 

“I must ask you, what is your name, sir?”

“It’s for the best if you just call me Charles. Taking on a name familiar to the Yharnamites makes things easier.” The man had said, shutting down any further inquiries on the matter. 

“Why are you here, Charles?” Alfred had asked one day. It had been a miserable day at the butchershop, one of the apprentices had overcome his fear of outsider diseases long enough to place a rotten egg in one of his work boots. Alfred was wondering why he was still in Yharnam himself.

“The beasts that stalk the woods and old Yharnam, they have been appearing in my home country as well and wrecking destruction. I wanted to track the source of the monsters, and sailed across the sea to the western continent to Yharnam. I came here to find answers, but every solution only provides more questions.”

“Such as?” Alfred asked.

Charles looked him in the eyes sternly. 

“Why, in the name of all reason, would anyone think to ingest blood?”

Alfred stared at him, confused. 

“The blood is holy. It heals us, makes us stronger, enlightens us.” He explained.

“It turns humans into monsters.” Charles said plainly. 

“It is worth the risk. One must partake in Moderation.” Alfred said earnestly, placing a book on the counter. 

“Another Historic Romance?” Charles asked, quirking an eyebrow with a playful smirk. 

“I...well, it’s my business, yes?” Alfred said, pulling up his scarf to hide his blush. 

Charles sighed as the money was exchanged. Alfred went to the door, pulling on the handle. 

“Suppose you are just like the rest, then.”

“Pardon?”

“You also partake in the blood.” Charles said solemnly, counting the coins.

“Only when needed. I nearly severed my thumb the first week in the shop, I needed a transfusion.” Alfred explained. He liked Charles, but he would never tell the man (or anyone else!) about his sickly, miserable youth or his time as a Blood Saint. He pulled off his threadbare glove and showed his hand to Charles. 

“See? Hardly a scar. If I had done it the old way, it would still be healing.”

“I understand. You are an outsider gone native, after all. But for God’s sake, be careful, alright? I won’t have the only decent Yharnamite end up a slavering monster.” Charles said, with a fond firmness. Alfred stared at him, unsure of what to say before exiting. 

“Goodbye!” he managed out, before hurrying down the street.

Gone native? Hardly! The only place Alfred had ever found belonging was with the departed Executioners. He opened the book as he walked, flipping through the pages. 

It was light fare, yes, but the tales of Knights, maidens, monsters and well, passion enraptured him. It was very much like the fairy tales he loved as a child, but...more adult. He then quickly slammed the book shut at a glimpse of a woodcut of the noble knight and his fair lady kissing.

Alfred looked down the empty street behind him nervously. He couldn’t have anyone think he was some kind of deviant, he was merely reading about romance, nothing more! There was that one time he opened a far more scandalous novel, and was treated to an illustration of a woman’s ankles and more, and descriptions of passion being consummated, written plainly in text! He had put it right back, of course, after briefly scanning over it, well, perhaps not briefly, only out of scientific curiosity of course! He had never experienced such a thing himself!

He did spend nights laying awake in the drafty attic room, staring at the ceiling and wondering about what love was like. Would he be cursed to love from afar, performing deeds and heroics for someone betrothed to another like the knights in his stories? Or would he find someone he could love in a more tangible fashion, as terrifying and achingly tantalizing as that prospect seemed?

 _“Find a local girl who won’t barf when she sees your outsider face”_ No, if Alfred could find love, it certainly would not come from the twisted streets of Yharnam. Until then, he would continue to live aimlessly and purposelessly as one of the Knights before meeting their lady. Of course, the Knights were rather desirable also, but alas, where to find someone so kind and chivalrous in this day and age-

Alfred quickly snapped himself out of his daydreaming. Goodness, this one had actual kissing in it! Usually the poor, loyal knight only got as far as kissing his lady’s hand or receiving a coveted favor like a handkerchief after hundreds of pages of pining from a distance, shivering with desire and losing sleep over his unrequited feelings. But this one had actual kissing!

Alfred walked back to the Butchershop, a new spring in his step from excitement over his new book, the confusing conversation with Charles forgotten. 

On his way up the rickety stairs that led to his lonely attic room, he overheard a conversation from the apprentice’s room below. 

“So the Constable ‘n his mates followed the beast over the western mountains and finally into ol’ Hemwick woods, the beast easily trappin’ n’ killing each one ‘long the way.”

Alfred leaned on the creaky railing, thankfully out of sight. The apprentices tended to gossip and tell crude stories, but it was rare to hear a tale about outsiders.

“When it was the old constable left, he was so maddened by the chase ‘n the death of his friends, that he ate the beast whole!” The other apprentices jeered and cackled. 

“Disgusting Outsider!”

“Hah! What an oaf! Only Yharnamites can stop beasts!”

“Of course,” The ring leader continued, making his voice low and harsh. “The Outsider Constable is still out there, having gone made from eatin’ a whole beast. He still stalks the woods today.”

Alfred rolled his eyes and continued up the stairs. Just another foolish yarn spread by the unintelligent. In the solitude of his room, lit by the weak candle stubs he had saved up, he happily read through his historical romance. 

Finally, the day came when he could not spend one more second in that miserable butchershop.

As winter drew ever closer, a change seemed to come over the meat that arrived daily. The carcasses of pigs sent to the Butchershop to be cleaned and cut became larger. Alfred had been initially startled by the size of pigs when he had seen his first carcass, imagining them to be dog sized, docile creatures, not beasts the size of a dinner table. While he had never seen any of the animals he had to butcher alive, something about the massive creature was quite disturbing.

He had not expected for new arrivals to be cut into pieces just to fit into the rickety wagon that brought meat every day. Legs and haunches bigger than a man’s, rib bones wide as roof slates, slabs of meat crudely torn apart just to be able to be transported. Even the Butcher seemed at a loss. Alfred strained to hear his whispered conversations with his Apprentices in the front of the shop while he was made to chop and clean the gargantuan pieces of flesh.

“‘S not right, pigs don’t grow this big, never.”

“Could they be beasts?”

“No, not beasts, they are all dead. It’s some kind of witchcraft.”

“I’ve been hearing rumors, creatures about in the woods, could the Beasts ‘ave returned?”

“No, must be somethin’ else.”

Alfred’s knife slipped along the rib bone, cutting farther then he meant to. Something...many somethings oozed out of the incision, things that had been clinging to the bone. 

His knife clattered to the floor as he shrieked. 

The Butcher burst in through the door, ready to howl at him for screaming until he too saw what spilled forth from the meat. Like dozens of frog eggs-tiny eyes, staring up at them both. 

“Close the shop!” He hollered at the apprentices, who scurried to do his bidding. “You.” He grabbed Alfred’s shoulder roughly, pushing him out the door. “Get out of here. This is nothin’ for Outsiders to be sticking their noses in! Come back later!” 

“I bet he caused it!” One of the apprentices yelled as Alfred stumbled into the street. “He’s so diseased he made it grow eyes!”

“That is absurd!” Alfred protested, struggling against the Butcher’s grip. “It’s your own damn diseases! I’m healthy!” His protests fell on deaf ears as he was shoved out in the snow, the door slamming behind him. 

Frustrated and freezing, Alfred craned his neck to get a glimpse of the attic window. He was not going to be tossed out during a cold afternoon when he could be in his attic room, safe from the elements. The buildings were all close together enough to perhaps clamber across, but he had never been very good with heights, or climbing. 

Instead, he crept around the unguarded back, through the narrow alleyway, where deliveries were made. All he needed to do was to creep up the stairs without being seen, then lay low in his room.

The apprentices and the butcher were in a heated argument in the front, loud enough that his footfall on the stairs would not be heard. He did not care to listen, but words like “witch” and “beast” and “filthy outsiders” were being tossed around quite a bit. Alfred slipped into his room, never so grateful to see the tiny, stained bed and the filthy window below the high, angled ceiling. Just as he began to rummage through his six or so books that he kept carefully stacked on the floor, he heard the sound of someone attempting to stealthily creep up the stairs. Clutching his newest book to his chest, Alfred crouched, looking around the room for any kind of barricade to shove over the trap door. No luck-the bed’s metal frame was practically rusted into the floor, and there was no other furnishings besides it. 

Obviously, the Butcher would have no need to creep about, and the other two apprentices were still scared of his ‘sickly outsider’ act to try to enter the attic. Alfred got into a pugilistic stance, knowing he may have to defend himself. It had been years since he had even practiced sparring, but if the oldest apprentice was carrying his knife…

The trapdoor flew open, and the oldest apprentices head peered over to see Alfred, trapped in the miserable attic room. 

“I been thinking.” He drawled, clambering up the ladder. Alfred drew up his fists, widening his stance. 

“You’ve been causing a lot of trouble, lately. It’s bad enough knowing some of our wages are going to an outsider, but now? Now, with you making the meat go bad?”

“By the gods! How could I make meat burst into eyes like that!” Alfred snarled.

“No one will miss one outsider.” The man responded. Alfred saw the flash of metal in his hand as he stood upright. A smirk wormed its way across his twisted features. “Maybe we should chop you up into meat instead, like Yharnamites used to do to idiot strangers.” 

The man charged, but Alfred swiftly dodged his rush. The apprentice was clumsy, telegraphing his movements long before he moved. If Alfred could get rid of the man’s knife, he was certain he could beat him in a fair fight. 

The apprentice tripped, clumsily slamming into the bed with a hiss of pain. He charged once more, but Alfred was ready. It was risky, but he was not going to die in a tiny attic. 

Alfred rushed forward and grabbed the apprentice’s wildly swinging arm, and twisted it painfully behind the boy’s back. He cried out in agony, and released the knife, which Alfred swiftly kicked down the open trap door.

The apprentice looked at him, eyes filled with murderous fury.

“Think yer smart!?” 

“Pathetic.” Alfred sneered, goading him. 

The apprentice charged. Alfred remembered the last time he had sparred with Philip. He had rushed forward too eagerly as well, although not with murderous intent, and paid the price. The apprentice charged into Alfred’s swiftly thrown fist, and fell back hard on the attic floor with a loud thump. For the first time, as the man lay there winded, it seemed he had noticed just how tall and strong his one-time object of torment was, as Alfred glared down at him from above. 

The urge to throw a kick into the now blubbering apprentice’s ribs was strong, but Alfred instead went about bundling up what he had in the room in the old, stained bedsheet. Carefully stacking his books, bunding his other pair of clothes around them, He was halfway down the ladder when the stunned apprentice came to his senses.

“HEEELP! HE’S MURDERING ME!” A shriek came from above. Even in pain, the apprentices would do anything they could to ruin his life.

“Shit.” Alfred hissed.

Boots thundered up the stairs. Seeing no other option, Alfred slipped the fallen knife into the bag, and set his sights on the window at the end of the hall. Seeing no other option, and with only seconds to spare before the Butcher and the man’s posse arrived up the stairs, he swung his laden bag at the window, breaking the thin glass in shards that tinkled onto the floor and sloping roof outside.

The last thing Camilla’s brother and his two apprentices saw of Alfred was a worn, tattered coat flash by as he pitched himself out on the roof as he clumsily half fell, half slid down the shingles onto the street, and ran off into the night, his boot prints rapidly covered by the falling snow, the Butcher’s bellows following him.

\---Present Day---

Quincy blinked in confusion. When he had left the dream, he had expected to return to cathedral Ward, but here he was, standing in the dark clinic where he had first awakened to this nightmare. Heavens, he probably left Alfred quite worried. A sinking feeling took root in the pit of his stomach as he realized that the doors above the staircase to the upstairs Clinic were opened. 

The Imposter Doctor was up there, and he was not too keen on the idea of facing her again. But, knowing the dream would keep him safe, he quietly trod up the stairs. 

A faint moan carried through the air as he passed through the open doors, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Quietly, he crept through the hallway that Alfred and himself had gone through what seemed like eternity ago. The hypocephalic blue creature still lurked in the corner, undisturbed by any of the night’s events, lacking any interest in Quincy as he walked by. 

He pressed a hand against the Clinic office’s door, and slowly swung it open. The fake Doctor was on all fours on an operating table, twitching and moaning. Quincy flinched back, feeling that he had walked in on something quite vulgar.

“Ooh, you again? Dear me. Where’s the other one?” She rasped, not even looking up at him.

“Never you mind that. What happened to the other doctor?” Quincy demanded. The Imposter continued, as if she had not heard. 

“Have...have you felt this? The nausea...oh, but it’s all worth it. It means I am worthy. I’m better than the beasts, I’ve been chosen.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Quincy circled her, boots clicking on the old wooden floor.

“The writhing. Inside my skull.” The Imposter’s eyes rolled back, revealing vein filled whites that seemed to shudder and dance. “The marvelous fullness of the brain. It’s rapturous. ”

Quincy had wanted to stop the Imposter before. He had taken Alfred along with the goal in mind to kill her and put an end to her experiments. However, seeing her writhe and babble made him feel sickened to be in the same room with her. He could hardly strike down an unarmed, ill woman, even a wicked one. Turning away and shutting his ears to whatever the fake doctor would say next, he paused as he saw something downstairs from the office. 

On the bed where he had received his blood transfusion laid a letter. Quincy quickly went down the rickety stairs, curious. Where had the letter come from? Lifting it from the stained bed, he turned it over in his hands, noting the old yet creamy parchment that made the envelope. On the back on the envelope, written in an elegant hand, read:

“ _Honored Quincy Morrison_.”

Breaking the old wax seal, Quincy removed and opened the letter.

“ _Brave Hunter._

 _You are hereby summoned to Castle Cainhurst. Head with all haste to Hemwick Crossing, to the ancient Monolith. The Stagecoach will find you there. Do not hesitate_.” 

The letter was unsigned. Quincy scratched his head. Here was a mystery. A seemingly ancient letter addressed to him, a stranger in Yharnam, and from the place that Alfred was chomping at the bit to get to. The idea to seek out Alfred and bring him with him crossed his mind, but Quincy remembered the Doll’s words. 

“ _Any death could be his last_.”

Quincy folded the letter neatly, and placed the envelope carefully in his pocket. He would go to Cainhurst castle first, just to see if it was safe, then return to retrieve Alfred. He felt guilty leaving Alfred in the lurch, probably still waiting for him at the Cathedral Ward, but the amount of joy that finding Cainhurst would bring to the man would certainly outweigh any feelings about his lateness. 

Approaching the Lantern to travel to a place closest to Hemwick, Quincy wondered what he would find in Castle Cainhurst. Would it be a dead, empty place after the Executioners destroyed the twisted Vileblood royalty? Or perhaps some Vilebloods waited there, lying in wait to exact revenge on the Executioners who had tried to kill them all. The thought made him shudder. The Messengers clustered around the lantern turned towards him, like eerie flowers facing the sun.

“I’ll be alright. But Alfred won’t.” Quincy muttered, as the Lantern took him away in a flash of violet light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it was going to happen eventually. I'm keeping the events of what exactly happened in Cainhurst up to the Reader's imagination. So, no more executioners, Logarius has started to turn into a Popsicle, and Alfred's lonely years* begins. *Editing so the gap of time between the death of the executioners is now five years, not ten.  
> Yharnam sucks, have I mentioned that? It really does. And it's only going to get worse from here on out.  
> Coming up next: A cowboy in Cainhurst and your favorite bug squisher!  
> Edit: Sorry for the delay, online classes are really ramping up and I have not felt that much inspiration. I am working on getting the next chapter out and have a portion done.


	10. Vermin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred finds an unexpected sanctuary in the woods. In the present, Quincy reaches Cainhurst and encounters of the last Vilebloods.

_A moon before the Queen was to give birth to her divine child, the vassal state of Cainhurst rose up in rebellion against her, claiming that the gods had abandoned Pthumeria. Chaos reigned in the streets, and the Queen and her most loyal supplicants were trapped in their castle, waiting for either Mergo's birth, or for the rabble to break down the doors._

_\---_

Quincy had once stumbled on Hemwick before he and Alfred had decided to travel through the forbidden woods together. The sun had still been up then, the sunset casting the thatched roofs and stone houses of the hilly village in a warm orange glow. It would have been pastoral, with the distant fields and rural surroundings, if not for the piles of corpses strewn about the village. Scarecrows dressed in the bloodied and torn clothes of the dead were propped up along fences and sticking up from odd angles along the walls. Women wielding sharpened farm-tools and red hot branding irons patrolled the streets or spun giddily in circles shouting nonsense. Quincy had taken that as his cue to return to Cathedral Ward. He would not enter a den of madness such as that unless he absolutely had to. 

Which, unfortunately, he had.

His first thought as the Lantern transported him out of the dream was how much worse everything looked under the ghastly red moon. If anything, the shrieks and howls of the villagers below were louder, and he could only see the glow of torches and hot metal from his vantage point by the lantern.

“A hunter must hunt.” Quincy said, trying to steel himself for what lay ahead, and jumped into the fray.

After a confused, bloody haze of fighting, running, screams, pain, and blood, Quincy emerged before an unusual vista as he caught his breath on the thatched roof of a long abandoned house. The first thing he saw, illuminated by the bloodied moon, was a vast castle in the distance, rising from the waters of the great lake below the village. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, making him wonder if this was the same lake he had killed the spider-monster on.

Back in Lordra, the ruins of castles were common sights, fallen walls and crumbled towers in the distance where imaginations went wild and only the bravest dare to tread. Unlike the ruins that dotted the moors and plains of his homeland, this castle was not only intact, but had inexplicable lights flickering in the windows, glimmering on the vast lake below. Stranger still, he had not noticed it before. 

This must have been the castle of the Vilebloods that Alfred had told him about. Only that legendary castle could seem so desolate, and so eerie. But, if the Castle that Alfred desired to get to was visible so close to Yharnam, what was keeping Alfred from getting there? Quincy carefully hopped off the rooftop, and rounded the corner of the house to be greeted with what could only be Hemwick Crossing.

A vast stone crossroads stretched out at the edge of Hemwick Village, with a curious blue obelisk sprouting from the middle of it. The road that led to the castle led to a bridge that crossed the lake from Hemwick Village to Cainhurst castle, but a vast portion of it had been destroyed. Now, the ragged stones on either side dropped off into nothingness.

Pulling out the envelope to worry it in his hands, Quincy looked about the stagecoach he was promised. Loose stones that had flaked off the cobbles over the years crunched under his boots as he approached the blue obelisk. Everything was eerily quiet, considering the chaos he had just struggled through.

An ear piercing shriek pierced the air. Reaching for his axe, Quincy rushed to the nearest cover-the Blue Obelisk, and crouched behind it, watching the scene unfold. 

“The Witch! The Witch is dead!” A bone old thin woman rushed from the stone house on the hilltop, grisly trophies held aloft in both her hands. Quincy covered his mouth to stop from gasping. Swinging from her grasp were the wizened, identical heads of two eye-less women, far more ancient then the woman who was swinging the heads about. 

“Hemwick is free! Hemwick is free from the curse of the Witches! Free from the Vilebloods! Free from Yharnam!” She shrieked. Seeming to emerge from the very backdrop, she was joined by the jubilantly howling masses of Hemwick, thrusting their torches and pitchforks in the air with glee. Quincy, not for the first time, felt as if he had wandered into a play at the very moment of the ending, lacking any context for what had happened in the acts before. 

A scoff sounded above him. Quincy started once more, raising his axe and peering upwards. Carefully perched at the top of the obelisk, positioned so to be only seen from one side, was a man. He looked down at Quincy with a rapid jerk of the head, his silver mask glinting in the red moonlight. It was a strange helmet, with no sign of eye slits or any openings to be able to see. The hinged top curved slightly up as it went over where the wearer’s mouth would be, giving the mask a slight beak. Teeth and a skull’s jawbone had been rendered in silver below the upper mask, combined with the Silver hair spilled out the back of the helmet gave the wearer a bizarre, otherworldly appearance.

“Ah, the new hunter. Caught alone, are we?” The stranger snickered. With the grace of a lizard, he crawled down the monument headfirst, his taloned gloves finding purchase in even the smallest cracks in the stone. Quincy backed up cautiously, caught between the stranger and the celebrating, murderous villagers. 

“Oh, no need to worry about that lot.” He slowly picked himself up, marionette-like. “They’ve all lost their minds, but they are far more focused on the dead Witches than you. Lucky you that some other bastard hunter took care of that mess.”

Quincy stared at him, transfixed by the man’s black feathered coat and familiar bell necklace. “Are you-” He started, before being interrupted.

“Bloody Crow. I know who you are, Quincy. I’ve seen you from the shadows as I stalk my own prey. Learned from the best, now. I’m sure you met her.” There was a smirk in the Crow’s voice. Quincy had. When he had first ran, lost and confused, but clear and energetic for the first time in who knows how long, he had tried to find a safe place in the warehouses in Yharnam. There, among the crates and the stench of the sewer, what was logically mere hours ago but felt like days, he had met The Crow. A woman clad in the same feathered cloak, topped with a beaked mask. Eileen had greeted him as a new hunter, the first one to do so. She had given him a few Hunter’s marks, then warned him about the dangers of Yharnam. From what he had gleaned, she hunted those who became blood drunk by the hunt. 

“Eileen never mentioned you.” Not like that was a big surprise. He and the woman had only met twice. Once, to be welcomed to Yharnam, secondly, to be warned away from the place where he had fought a man turned beast, the Tomb of Oedon. Quincy had complied. 

“Why bring up your failures to newcomers.” Bloody Crow chuckled. “Now, I’m going to ask you once, nicely. Hand over that letter.”

Quincy felt the letter in his pocket. He had a terrible feeling of dread about Cainhurst, but this was the greatest clue he had about ending the Hunt, as well as some new insight into Alfred. Anyway, he would never hand something over to a creepy stranger.

“I don’t think so, pal. Why do you want it?”

“Homesickness. Nostalgia. The fact that the damn missing Castle re-appeared after a decade.” Bloody Crow drew his sword-a curved, elegant blade-from his scabbard. “You don’t know that Hunters always hunt in twos, do you? Now, here you are, alone without that damn wannabe Executioner.”

“Wait-are you a Vileblood?” Quincy asked, startled. Alfred was certain that all but the Queen had died, but-

“One of the last, if it matters.” The Crow interrupted sharply. “Not like anyone knows. You tend to keep that information to yourself if it would bring the entire church on your head.” The Bloody Crow began to slowly approach Quincy, prompting the man to start stepping away at a similar pace.

“You must be wanting revenge.” Quincy was stalling for time now, trying to get the Crow to keep talking. He was beginning to despair of the promised Coach ever coming.

“Revenge? Oh yeah, sure, get revenge, with the last one in Executioner colors being a fucking massive madman with a hammer. As the last of anything, one has to survive. So. I wait. I watch. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, and Alfred is a fool with a long and hard fall incoming.” The Crow pointed the tip of his blade at Quincy’s throat, then drew it back to do a strange thing. He sheathed it once more, but a wet squelch sounded the moment blade touched scabbard. The Bloody Crow drew his blade, inexplicably now soaked in blood and gore. Quincy’s eyes widened as he saw the blade keep going past its usual length, the blood from the scabbard somehow forming another few inches of sword. The Crow continued to languidly pull it from the seathe, knowing damn well he was putting on a show of the gruesome act.

“What the hell?!” Quincy asked, his Axe raised without even the memory of him raising it. As if to respond to The Crow’s blade transformation, he weakly pulled the mechanism that allowed his Hunter’s axe to gain a few inches of handle. “Is that what you want? A ‘weapon’ measuring contest?”

The Bloody Crow seemed to be blind to any of the humor in the statement, and lunged at Quincy without a second taunt. Cursing the fact that his lengthened axe prevented him from using his pistol-not like that would stop a fellow Hunter on Blood, but causing a flinch or stagger might help him achieve the upper hand.Then, like the answer to a prayer, he saw the stagecoach making its way towards them both over the old cobbles, behind the Bloody Crow.

Snow dusted, faded, and battered, the coach looked just as ancient as the road he was dodging the Crow on. Most worryingly, there was no driver on top to guide the horses, but they seemed to know what to do and Quincy had more pressing worries. 

Quincy sprinted past the Crow, narrowly missing being swiped by the blood-enchanted blade. A vast arc of blood, thankfully not Quincy’s, followed the Crow’s wide thrust. The man gave a startled cry at the sight of stagecoach. 

“No! That is for me, not some damn Outsider!” The doors swung open the second Quincy put hand on the door handle, and he practically jumped on to the worn red velvet seats.

“You’d keep me from my home?! Bastard!” The Crow shrieked, lunging at the open door only for it to shut curtly in his face. Menaced by Quincy’s threatening Axe by the open window, the Crow decided to use his supernatural climbing abilities. The coach rocked and thuds echoed through the cabin as the man hastily clambered on top. A harsh, cawing laugh sounded the moment that the thuds stopped, and the sound of two boots mockingly battering against the front of the coach altered Quincy that his foe had perched on the Driver’s seat. Quincy pressed himself against the plush back of the carriage, waiting for the Crow’s next attack with pistol and axe ready. 

“Just the two of us to Cainhurst, eh Quincy? Perhaps I’ll get the chance to throw you off the Bridge, since it seems I will no longer need that letter!”

“Thou art not invited!” A harsh female shouted in response, seeming to come from all directions at once. “Leave, or be dismissed!” 

“Annali-” The Bloody Crow asked, his voice a mix of shock and surprise. The next thing Quincy heard was a shriek and a loud thump. He poked his head out of the carriage to see the Bloody Crow laying in a heap on the road, picking himself up with none of the eerie grace he had shown before. 

“Happy Trails!” Quincy called. The Bloody Crow’s curses were left to the night air. 

\---Years ago---

Alfred had stumbled, slipped, and had spent more time losing his balance on the ice and snow in the constantly wet woods then he had running. No matter, he had to get as far away from the city as possible. Reality was starting to set in, and he had finally realized how much of a mess he was in.

The Forbidden Woods, decked with tombstones and crumbling monuments and haunted by folk even more rural then the villagers of Hemwick was well known to be populated with poisonous snakes and parasites that bred in the stagnant water. But, with a heavy blanket of snow that continued to fall, thankfully covering his tracks, the snakes would be sound asleep in their dens and the parasites and other foul creatures either dead or dormant. 

While the woods was so named for the Church’s mandate that none may enter it, the rule was not well enforced, and was thus not obeyed. Alfred knew his situation was grim. Brawling with a native Yharnamite and trouncing him-quite soundly, infact!-Would come with dire consequences to a near friendless, orphaned outsider, assuming that the threat of being sold as meat was just an empty threat and not, infact, something Yharnamites would do. Alfred had no plans for what to do, or where even to go, and elected to just keep running through the snow covered woods.

Of course, whatever meager luck he had with making it this far finally ran out as Alfred found that he had not taken a step onto another patch of snow covered ground, but had instead put his boot through a patch of thick ice. The rest of his body soon fell through what was a frozen, muddy pond up to his chin with a startled yelp, his bundle falling on the snowy ice behind him. He scrabbled at the edges of the ice in an animal panic as he felt the thick, icy mud begin to seep into his clothes and boots. 

Dare he cry out for help? He wondered, trying to blink snowflakes out of his eyes as he struggled. 

“Stop!” A rough voice called, and Alfred did, literally and figuratively freezing. 

“Lad, you gotta pull yourself out. Slowly now. There.” Alfred began the slow process of trying to haul himself out of the ice, managing to get out up to his waist, then high enough to swing a leg over. He then attempted to draw himself to his feet. 

“No! Lay down on the ice!” The voice commanded. Alfred complied, feeling rather foolish with his cheek freezing against the ice, still having no idea where the owner of the voice was. 

“What good will that do?” he yelled back, trying to reach his bag. 

“Don’t question me now, roll towards my voice. You don’t want to fall through the ice. There we go. Good man!”

So Alfred rolled, seeing white ice, snow, then sky, snow, the sky, then the worn boots of his unknown savior. 

One eye peered at him through a bucket-like helmet dusted in snow. A gloved hand roughly grabbed his face, as the man drew his helmeted head close, examining him closely. “Good, good. You are still human.” The man said, seemingly satisfied by his rough examination. He drew out a long cane, which he used to push Alfred’s bundle within reach. Alfred grabbed the bag and hugged the snowy, somewhat wet parcel to his chest like it was his returned child.

“Up on your feet now, the ground’s safe.” Every word the stranger said seemed like a command, and Alfred was a natural born follower. To refuse felt like going against his nature, so he followed the stranger’s orders as they came. “Wet clothes are death, lad. I’ll give you my coat.” Valtr added, making Alfred balk at the suggestion to strip naked, but the man had already begun to remove his own great coat.

“I-- I--” His teeth chattered furiously as he first began to fumble through his pack. Though rushed, he had packed another set of clothing. But his hands shook too fiercely to properly handle the pack. Understandingly, the man took the pack from his hands and began to rummage for the clothing briefly tossing the books flatly, yet carefully, to the ground. With his head turned so that he could not see Alfred as he stripped from his quickly freezing clothing, the man pulled out each garment and held them so that Alfred could dress in relative privacy. But even clad in dry clothing, Alfred’s teeth chattered and limbs shook. Seeing this, the man swung his coat over Alfred’s shoulders.

“Come now.” The coat didn’t quite fit Alfred, so he left it hanging over his back. Too cold to think properly and too deeply trained to follow orders, Alfred stepped behind him without a word. They tramped along the snowy woods, bracken and sticks crunching under their boots. In reality, the Forbidden Woods was no more ominous than any other wood, at least while it was lacking snakes, but in the snow, it felt sparse and bleak. Only the pines still held onto their leaves. The grand trees beyond them were naked and dormant as if dead and stripped of their worldly belongings. Like skeletons devoid of flesh. There were no delicate beech trees with their pale ghostly leaves that clung to the branches until new life brushed them away. There were no beautiful white birches in an open glade- no knight chasing the Questing Beast on horseback, like in some of Alfred’s favorite tales. Alfred wanted to chuckle at the image of the bespeckled knight and his creature, but he was too cold and too miserable. It was then that the man broke the eerie, muffled silence that only falling snow could create.

“Terrible luck. What were you running from?”

“I’m in trouble.” Alfred managed through chattering teeth. Even with the loaned coat, he couldn’t really speak of it and seem ungrateful. But the stranger seemed satisfied by the answer and did not press. Though snow made the woods a conformist gray and any moonlight was hidden by the dark grey clouds the man knew his way. The trees gave way to a small clearing, and an old windmill came in sight, flanked by the dark snow covered trees. Long abandoned, the arms of the windmill were ragged and unrepaired. Despite the disrepair, there was no obvious sign of overgrowth. No plants had crumbled the foundation. There were dead vines, but not so many as to be a concern.

“There’s blankets and such inside. I’ll get a fire started.” The stranger ushered him inside the rickety structure, which smelled of moldy old wood and smoke. For a moment, Alfred’s heart stopped. The man had saved him, but he’d been too shocked to notice if the man had saved his _books_ as well. He desperately tore open his pack only to find that his precious literature had been placed neatly on top of his wet clothes. Whatever was said fell on Alfred’s deaf ears- most of the books were dry, but the one on the bottom had the misfortune of growing damp. He could wait as the fire grew warmer, but his book could not. Forgetting everything else, he began to fan the damp cover pages of _Knight’s Ladies_ **.**

The stranger glanced at this, whether quizzically or despairingly was hidden under his helm, then went back to stoking the smouldering fire outside the mill. An old wooden building with no ventilation or chimney was not a good place for a campfire, so with the use of the roof and a few stretched pieces of oilcloth ten feet or so above to keep the snow off the fire, the stranger had made do. Standing in the doorway of the structure, out of the wind but close enough to feel the growing warmth from the rejuvenating fire, Alfred’s teeth stop chattering enough to speak.

“I cannot thank you enough, sir.”

“One cannot leave a fellow human to suffer and die.” The stranger said, tossing another log on the reviving fire. The stranger pulled an ornately carved chair-an odd thing to have in such rough surroundings-by the fire to sit and stare into the growing flames. Once at a decent temperature. Alfred joined him, sitting on an unused log to lay out his wet clothing with care.

“I suppose I ought to tell you about my mission.” The stranger said, removing his helmet. Stringy blonde hair spilled out from it, revealing a man a decade older than Alfred, with the features of an obvious outsider. The most unusual feature of the man’s face was his empty ragged looking eye socket. Alfred quickly looked away, trying to be polite and not stare.

“I am Valtr. Master of the League.” Despite the grand sounding title, Valtr did not seem to expect Alfred to be impressed.

“That’s nice.” Alfred said, unable to think of anything else to say.

Valtr paused, then chuckled. “I can see you are a bit scrambled from what you have been through, lad. I will tell you the vital mission later. What brings you out here, now?”

“I got in a fight with another apprentice after I was thrown out of my place of employ.” 

Valtr looked bemused. “The way you were running, I had thought you had burned down Yharnam.” Valtr paused. “It may be too early to joke about such things.”

“I was sure they were to kill me, just for being an outsider! And-I did not have anywhere to go.” Valtr nodded as he went on. 

“I understand.” Valtr said, leaning on his cane. “The League welcomes outcasts, those that disagree with the Healing Church.”

“No-I don’t-” Alfred started. How could he explain to this man that he technically was sworn to be part of the healing church, he wondered, before realizing that he certainly should not. 

“The Healing Church is Yharnam, lad. If you disagree with how they treat you, you disagree with the Healing Church. The League fights against their filth.” The man looked over at Alfred once more, and seemed to relent. “You’ve had a hard day. There's extra sleeping bags inside the windmill you may take. Take the cleanest smelling one. The Madras Twins, bless their hearts, seem to have creative views on hygiene”

\-----

Valtr was not a terrible companion to share a room with, heretical tendencies aside. He tended to keep by himself, and did not ask too many questions about what trouble Alfred had got himself into, or where he had come from. The Mill was a good distance from the rickety and dangerous looking settlement that Alfred could see at the base of the hill, but the people who lived there minded their own business and he and Valtr minded their own. Of course, as he was staying with Valtr for now, he was expected to pull his own weight.

“Do you know how to shoot?” Valtr had asked. Alfred frowned, closing his book. In the Executioners, the focus had been on the wheel and hand to hand combat. Marksmanship was taught after Alfred was removed from the main Executioner training, those learning it taken into a hidden shooting range in the woods lest anyone miss their mark and hit the Workshop.

“I’m afraid I never learned it.” Alfred said solemnly. Valtr nodded. 

“I’ll need a hunting partner, since my confederates are unavailable.” He explained, leaning on his cane.

“Where are these confederates?” Alfred asked, rising from his spot on his sleeping bag. Made from the tanned hide of some animal, it was the warmest place to sit in the windmill, which was only a bit warmer than the chilly outside. 

“The Madras twins are hibernating.” Valtr chuckled when Alfred shot him a strange look. “They were raised by a giant snake, and took on her habits.”

“...A giant snake?!”

“Yes. Strange things happen in these woods, friend. Now, since you are technically a member of the League as long as you stay here, you are going to learn your way around a gun.” Valtr produced a sinister looking blunderbuss. Nothing like the sleek, well made rifles that the hunter Ludwig had popularized in the Healing Church, it made Alfred jittery just by holding it. “It won’t bite.” Valtr remarked, as Alfred turned it over in his hand. “I’ve put my trust in that weapon. Now it’s your turn to put your trust in me.”

\---

The target was a frozen crow of an alarming size, hung by its talons from a high branch. Alfred was unfamiliar with birds and nature in general, but was certain something was abnormal with the bird.

“Must we use such a grisly target?” Alfred asked. If Valtr made a face in response, it remained hidden under his bucket-like helmet. 

After several failed attempts to get into the right stance and to properly shoot, Alfred finally discharged the gun at Valtr’s command...only to find he had neglected to unlock the safety. Valtr laughed before enlightening him.

“What if I cannot hit it?” After several agonizingly wrong positions, each corrected by gentle prods of Valtr’s cane, Alfred had seemed to take a stance that Valtr found passable.

“Move your elbow, lad. You will break your shoulder that way. Perfect. Focus on shooting.” Valtr said. “Now, SHOOT!”

Alfred pulled the trigger, and suddenly the world was lost in a cloud of gunsmoke. With stinging eyes, he found that the target was riddled through with bullets...as was the tree it hung from, and Alfred was certain that he had killed the bushes by it as well. Valtr gave a shout of approval. 

“No need to worry about missing with a blunderbuss, lad.” Alfred gave a nervous chuckle. 

“Goodness, suppose I was a worrywart.” 

“Now.” Valtr said with vigor that filled Alfred with exhausted dread. “We are going to do that over and over, every day, until you are perfect.”

\----

It did not take long for Alfred to put his new skills to use. 

“There’s a beast about.” Valtr had returned from his morning ‘patrol’ mere days later by throwing the door open, grim face illuminated by the weak winter daylight.

“A beast?” Alfred was aware that Vicar Laurence torching old Yharnam had not totally eradicated the beasts, but the idea of one of the monsters prowling around made his mouth go dry. 

“Well, time for you to put that training to use. It’s best for Hunters to work together, and put an end to the disgusting thing.” Valtr snarled the last words, before marching out of the windmill. A strange, circular-saw was strapped to his back, and in his hand was a strange mace-like object. Alfred followed him, clutching the old machete that Valtr had given him. He had shown to Valtr that he knew his way around a blade, and their combined reasoning was what was a machete but a bigger knife? Alfred knew better than to question Valtr about the curious saw, as the man went from jovial to frothing when it came to exterminating beasts. 

“There, see that? The foul creature passed this way.” Valtr’s voice was soft, but it carried all of his hatred and disgust. He pointed his boot’s tip towards the tracks-lumbering, quaking footprints somewhere between that of a bare human foot and that of a dog’s paw. Large handprints appeared in the snow around the track, as if the creature had been hobbling about trying to steady it’s movement. As if it had suddenly gone from bipedal to quadrupedal.

Which, it certainly had.

“It’s struggling. Must be newly turned. No blood, however...it’s been a few hours since they transformed into this wretched state…” Valtr suddenly went stock still, obviously listening. 

“That way.” He said, taking off, leaving Alfred to rush behind him, wondering how and what he had heard.

They heard the monster long before they saw it. Raspy, heavy breathing and tearing sounds grew louder as Valtr slowed, motioning for Alfred to do the same. There, through the branches and the brush, was a wolf-like creature. Covered in stringy, matted fur more like human hair than that of an animal, it seemed somewhat unfinished in it’s transformation. Anyone familiar with canine anatomy would have noticed that the beast’s legs were still roughly human shaped, as if the hips and pelvis never changed fully to that of a wolf, making the beast shuffle about awkwardly. The creature was hunched over the carcass of a frozen deer, gnawing at the remains.

“Scourge Beast.” Valtr muttered, pointing to it with his cane. Alfred watched as he quietly removed the circular saw blade from his back, and attached it to his mace. Valtr firmly handed Alfred the blunderbuss

“I’ll make the first move. When you see an opening, shoot.” Valtr whispered. “I’m putting my faith in you, Confederate.” Alfred instinctively crouched, getting into position. 

Without a second word, Valtr sprang forward. The saw roared to life with a shower of sparks, bright orange flashing against the white snow and gray trees. As the saw bit into the monster’s flank in a shower of gore, a splash of red joined the palette. The beast whirled around, arms outstretched to retaliate. As if it was something he had been doing his whole life, Alfred pulled the trigger.

Valtr did not even flinch as the spray of bullets flew past him, squarely hitting the beast in the chest. The creature flinched back, and Valtr made his move. It was almost too quick to be seen in the gray light, but Valtr’s hand seemed to warp and change under his stained glove. Quick as a flash, Valtr tore into the beast’s chest with a spray of blood. Alfred could only watch slack jawed as the beast staggered back, to be dispatched with one last savage cut of the circular saw. The beast shrieked once, then went still. Valtr breathed hard, removing his helmet to reveal a sweat slicked face and flattened hair. His hand that had ripped into the beast was still clenched, as if keeping something inside of it.

“Good work not shooting me. We were very lucky today. Usually those creatures are in pairs. Now. Let’s see if you are League Material.” Valtr beckoned him close, slowly opening his clenched, bloodied hand. 

“I’ve told you, I am not joining-” Alfred peered in anyway, feeling sick at the sight. A red creature, like a writing centipede wriggled helplessly in Valtr’s grasp. For a brief moment, Alfred felt a painful, crowded sensation behind his eyes that vanished as quickly as it came. 

“You see it? Good. Now, this is Vermin. Within every beast, one of these lurks. The healing Church, the howling lunatics, the mad doctors-they all know about these.” Valtr tightened his grip on the creature. 

“How do you know that? I’ve certainly never heard of one of these creatures.” Alfred asked, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m no man of science. I know it has something to do with the plague. Humanity can only be free if all of these vermin are destroyed along with the beasts.” Valtr tossed the insect down on the snow, almost casually. Before the thing could wiggle away, he slammed his boot down on it, grinding his heel and dyeing the snow red. 

“How did you do that?” Alfred asked. 

“What, kill a beast? Squash a bug?” Valtr disambled his saw with a fluid motion. 

“No, I mean-that brutal attack-you tore into it with your bare hands!” Alfred said, realizing he had not lowered the blunderbuss. He did so, somewhat embarrassed.

“Old hunting trick.” Valtr merely grinned. “You’ll be able to viscerally attack soon. You will know when the time is right. Now, give me a hand.” Valtr grabbed the monster’s hind legs, meaning to drag it along.

“You mean to bury it?” Alfred asked, taking the other leg. Valtr chuckled grimly.

“And waste good meat?”

\---

While his years in the Butcher shop had given him a skilled hand, preparing a beast gave him some pause. But it had been a week without fresh meat, and the creature was not human anymore. Prepared with a hidden store of salt and root vegetable that Valtr produced, the thick ‘beef’ stew tasted rather good. The meal would be complete if he still had access to the scones or small cakes of the Bakery back in Yharnam he had grown to love, but that was not a luxury a fugitive could afford.

“Cooking it removes the impurities and we already squashed the vermin.” Valtr said, pointing a spoon at Alfred when he first hesitated to try the stew.

“It’s...not bad.” Alfred removed a shard of metal-possibly part of a bullet from his bowl with a grimace. 

“Trust me. I’ve had worse. If you’ve been living here and eating meat, you’ve certainly already tasted tainted flesh. It starts with the animals, like the crows and the pigs, then to humans. You’ve certainly had crow passed off a chicken, and the pigs grow massive-even better for meat, if you can kill one.” Alfred remembered the eyes spilling out of the meat with a shudder. 

“I worked as a Butcher, before I got into the altercation.” Alfred started. Valtr snorted into his soup. 

“Sometimes...the meat was somewhat curious.” Alfred paused. “Erm, eyes came out of the flesh, once.”

Valtr raised his eyebrows. “How did the others react?”

“They closed the shop and threw me out as it was a matter not to be discussed with an outsider such as myself.”

“Sounds about right. I’ve got another theory. Sometimes, I find creatures with too many eyes near Byrgenwerth.” Valtr said. Alfred perked up at the mention. This was something he knew! “I dare not go into that accursed place. But sometimes, I find fly-creatures wandering the woods near it. Like men, with bloated heads full of eyes. They are revolting.” Valtr snarled.

“I heard it was abandoned years ago.” Alfred said mildly. “I read and learned about how the Scholars there found the source of the Healing Blood in the tombs, and how they brought it back for all of Mankind’s benefit-”

“Yes, it is abandoned.” Valtr interrupted him. “But something remains, left behind by the twisted scholars.” Valtr sneered. “The world would be better without that lot.”

“They were seeking the ascension of man, surely-” Alfred started.

“Look around you, Alfred.” Valtr said sharply. “Mankind is not ascending. If anything, we are closer to the dirt now then we were before the Healing Church started. Without their work, Vermin would not writhe about our world, Old Yharnam would still stand, and we would not have these beasts prowling about, filled with vermin. If there’s old gods out there, the buggers are probably laughing at us fools and playing games with us like pawns.”

Alfred looked down, ashamed. Well, the Executioners did not distribute the Holy Blood, or burn down old Yharnam. Their mission was holy and righteous, squashing corruption much like Valtr and his League did.It was unfortunate that they were tied to such a tarnished institution as the Healing Church. His thoughts turned to Amelia once more. She was Vicar now, but after so long, Alfred was certain they were strangers. From what he knew, the Healing Church had tried to make amends, but how could anyone trust them as much as they did before people began to turn into beasts and Old Yharnam burned?

Valtr’s expression softened. “Sorry Lad, you’ve been told lies your whole life by the Church. I suppose that the truth is quite a shock.”

“No, I understand.” Alfred said, taking another bite of the stew so not to answer.

“Well, rest easy.” Valtr finished his stew, rising from his chair. “I have a feeling we are to see far more beasts and Vermin soon.”

\---

He was back in the Executioner’s workshop, pacing endlessly. It had been weeks, where were they? Would he wait forever in these empty halls, forever wishing to return back to a time when he was loved and surrounded by his family?

Finally, a blessed knock rang through the halls, making Alfred spring for the door. As he ran down the hallway his gait turned involuntarily from an eager sprint to an impossible crawl, as if the floor had become a sea of quicksand. The familiar wood-paneled halls slowly turned from his recognizable home to unfamiliar cold stone bricks with his every slowed step. A faint whisper sounded, making his head swim as the sounds penetrated his head.

_“Bearer of my Blood.”_

As he stumbled, trying to move faster, he saw the familiar golden glints in the distance. A cluster of Executioners, all wearing the Holy Ardeos stod in the distance, seeming to be moving towards him without moving themselves. The sight of his companions somehow filled Alfred with dread-somehow, he blinked, and they were upon him, ten Golden Ardeos surrounding him, towering over him, expressionless. The first thing he noticed was the stench, like rotting fish and brine. Each of the Executioner’s robes was drenched in seawater and blood. Wounds gaped from rips in their uniform, but did not bleed out onto grayed skin. Ringed by the dead, Alfred was unable to escape. Eerie voices echoed from under the helmets.

“You were no help.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Your blood was foul.”

“We’ll never be Martyrs now. Not while the Queen still lives.”

The dead Executioners all looked upwards at once. Cracks formed on the arched ceiling, growing faster with each rhythmic pound. The walls and ceiling fell away, revealing a blood soaked moon in a turbulent purple sky. The floor and the ghostly Executioners fell away, but Alfred was grabbed-clenched tightly by a massive hand. 

A monster clung to a castle roof, perched like a spider. It’s form was that of a human, but it was supernaturally stretched, with arms and legs unnaturally long. It clutched Alfred tightly, bringing it up to it’s Cadaver like-face. 

Alfred recognized the golden robes, the rings on the hand that gripped him. He squirmed, desperately trying to free himself. He did not want to see the monster’s face. Alfred already knew what it would be, but try as he might, closing his eyes hid nothing as his eyelids had become transparent. 

Puffs of water vapor condensed on his face, reeking of the monster’s foul breath as it puffed from between its exposed teeth set in a lipless mouth. Shrunken and withered, the skin on the monster’s face was that of tanned leather, still holding on to the briskly remains of a long whte beard. Rotten as it was, it was still unmistakably, the face of Logarius. 

“Master-Please, let me go!” Alfred begged, as the monster stared at him with empty eye sockets. Without even an expression change, the Logarius-thing slowly increased it’s grip. Crushing him, crushing him, tighter. Lights forming a symbol flashed before Alfred’s eyes-three holes and a curve, with three lines like claw marks dragging down.

“Alfred! Alfred! Wake up, Wake up!” Valtr was shaking him frantically, pulling him back to reality. Alfred launched himself forward, breathing hard.

Somehow, he had twisted himself enough in the sleeping bag to nearly constrict himself, but that revelation did nothing to steady his racing heartbeat or mop the sweat from his brow.

“A night terror?” Valtr asked, stepping back to give him some space. Somehow, even in his fear addled state, Alfred was unsurprised to see that Valtr had been sleeping in his old uniform, boots included.

“Yes. Yes it was.” Alfred gasped out, extracting himself from the sleeping bag to attempt to cool himself off. 

“Come with me outside in a moment. I’ll get the fire started.” Valtr was out the door before Alfred could protest, with the expectation that he would follow.

After getting his boots on and bundling up enough to go outside, Alfred found Valtr intently gazing at the newly revived fire. He quietly sat, scenes from the dream replaying in his head. Alfred fiddled with the hem of the undershirt that he wore along with his trousers as sleepwear.

Valtr broke the silence. “I had a dear friend, once. A fellow confederate.” Alfred remained silent, pulling the blanket he brought with him closer against the winter chill. 

“He was a great warrior, also foriegn to Yharnam. He was not from New Loran like myself, but was from a land to the east, over the sea. Somehow, a beast made it there and killed someone very dear to him.” The fire flared as Valtr stirred it with a branch, reflecting in his good eye. 

“I invited him to join the league, happy to meet a fellow outsider. Brave as he was...the sight of the writhing vermin in our first kill together was too much for him to take.” Valtr looked at Alfred solemnly. “Tell me, lad. Did the Vermin sicken your heart?”

“No! Not at all-it was quite repulsive, but my nightmare was of a totally different matter.” Alfred said. Valtr relaxed, giving Alfred a slight smile. 

“Good. Good. You do not have to divulge the details of the dream. I understand. I often...remember a painful past in a similar way as well.” Valtr stirred the fire once more. “I don’t know how to deal with night terrors.” He admitted. “Beasts, you can fight. Vermin, you can eradicate. What's in the head…”

Both men remained silent, listening to the fire crackle and the gentle sounds of the trees in the wind. 

“I thank you, Valtr.” Alfred said softly. 

Valtr merely grunted in response, but Alfred took it well. Under the pretense of poking the fire with it, Alfred picked up a stick. When Valtr’s back was turned, he drew the symbol on the snow.

It could have been a smiling face, bleeding from the eyes and nose, or perhaps a person with their arms outstretched with two candles behind them. It would have been a tower with the curve of a massive moon behind it. Either way, it chilled him deeper than the falling snow could.

\---Present Day---

The carriages bumped and shook as the horses pulled it along the cobblestone bridge. Quincy stuck his head out the window to check if the Bloody Crow had followed, just in time to turn his head forward and see the horses begin to take a step right off the blasted remains of the bridge. Quincy yelped and struggled with the door, only to find that it had locked shut with no sign of a handle. Hoping he could perhaps escape through the window before the carriage plummeted to his death, he clutched the carriage window sill, ready to throw himself back on the bridge’s stones. Just as Quincy shoved his head out the window again, trying to angle his shoulders to escape, he realized what was truly going on-

The horses and the carriage were not falling-instead, they were calmly walking along the massive gap as if it was a leisurely stroll. The carriage was gliding along nothingness, with the roiling sea hundreds of feet below. Quincy fell back into the carriage, trying to calm his racing heart. Yes, he would awaken from any death, but the fate of splattering upon the unyielding surface of the ocean from this height would be a horribly painful way to go, and he did not look forward to running into the Bloody Crow again. 

What kind of magic allowed the carriage to fly across the gap from Hemwick Village to Castle Cainhurst was a mystery. Quincy reflected on tales from his home of trains in the night that howled through the hills and over broken rails. Some plunged into waters far below them re-enacting the deaths of their passengers over and over while others safely flew over the chasms or through collapsed tunnels to carry the souls aboard to some otherworldly destination. Perhaps it was some strange magic that allowed the horses and carriage to fly. He worried his fingers across the balding velvet seats, having nothing to do but wait for them to arrive.

The castle drew nearer and nearer. Lights, despite all logic, flickered in the windows. 

“ _Once, a Scholar betrayed his fellows at Byrgenwerth and brought forbidden blood with him back to Cainhurst Castle…”_ Alfred had said _._

Snow flurries danced about the carriages, blowing in through the windows and chilling Quincy’s cheeks. His words continued to echo in Quincy’s mind.

_“It was there that the first of the inhuman Vilebloods was born- The Vilebloods are fiendish creatures who threaten the purity of the Church's blood healing.”_

The eerie walls and towers of the castle were all too familiar. Yharnam looked nothing like any of the old ruined cities and Castles in Lordra, but Cainhurst could have been transplanted from his home. Quincy’s teeth chattered; whether it was from cold, fear, or anticipation, he was unsure.

_“...The ruler of the Vilebloods is still alive today... and so, to honour my Master's wishes... I search for the path to Cainhurst Castle…”_

“I found your path, Alfred.” Quincy said aloud. The carriages touched down on the end of the bridge with a jolt that rattled Quincy to the very bones as the horses gave a pained cry. He waited a moment, trying to recover from the shock of the sudden landing. 

Faint voices cried in the air. A loud, rhythmic pounding in time with many voices chanting and yelling. There was a loud crash, then a cheer. 

“Executioners! This day, we breach the very gates of evil!” A deep voice came, carried over the wind and air, vanishing as quickly as it came. Quincy burst from the carriage, slamming the carriage door in his haste to see where the ruckus had come from only to find himself alone. 

There, before the carriage, covered in deep drifts of snow, lay the horses that had carried him to Cainhurst. Kneeling to inspect them, Quincy shuddered. Much like the dead man before the woods, the horses looked as if they had inexplicably been dead for a long time. Half mummified by the cold and half rotten, Quincy felt his heart twinge at the sight. He had always loved horses and seeing two of the noble beasts dead alone uncared for in death drove home how much death and misery he had seen that night. 

He had seen so many corpses in such a short amount of time that the sight of another dead person did not even distress him anymore. Steeling himself, Quincy gazed up at the castle. With the same magic that had brought him the letter and carriage, the gate opened, and Quincy stepped inside, unknowingly the first living person in Cainhurst in a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gee Aster, did you make The Bloody Crow a pathetic little weasel because you are sick of every creep author using him as the fetishistic rapist in the vast ocean of Alfred whump fics on this hellsite?"  
> Yes. Yes I did. Also it's funny as hell that the Crow sees Alfred as an unbeatable arch nemesis while Alfred has no idea he exists. Crow is right, though, Alfred would kick his ass and [that's a verified fact](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9H_lhhRKEP4)   
> Sorry this took so long to get out. Classes have been ramping up.  
> 


	11. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quincy continues onward in Cainhurst, meeting several types of ghosts along the way. In the past, Alfred returns to Yharnam.

_ Mergo was stillborn. The Queen wept, for Oedon had abandoned her.  
_

_ The end of the Empire was swift. The castle was stormed, and the Queen dragged away in manacles. Her most loyal subject, the Captain of the Guard, was entombed alive by the Cainhurst Royalty and the soldiers that had once served under him, doomed to wither to a corpse. There he would wait, aware, alone with his own thoughts, entombed next to his Queen's corpse. _

_ Finally, the last tragedy occurred. In a vast earthquake, all of Pthumeria slid below the ground, turning lavish palaces and stone cathedrals into sunken, miserable catacombs. Oedon's vengeance on the people who had turned against his Queen. _

\---

The steps that led to the snowy courtyard had been blanketed in clean, fresh snow, undisturbed by footsteps. But once Quincy took a step through the gate, he saw that the statue littered courtyard inside had been trodden by many feet and limbs. Not human feet. Not anymore. 

The Messenger circled lantern was a welcome sight as Quincy lit it, thankful that he would not have to hope for a second miracle carriage ride. The gray skinned, bloated monsters that hobbled and scampered about the courtyard, were not as welcome. 

Having grown up on a farm, Quincy was familiar with fleas. Tiny bugs that swam as easily through his family’s dogs’s fur as easily as a fish through water. These creatures looked like some maddened god attempted to make a flea from a human. Covered in coarse hairs with obscenely bloated middles, they turned their skull-like heads this way and that, their foot long tongues wagging about. Thankfully, they had yet to notice Quincy, instead lazily hopping about the place. 

Taking refuge behind a statue, Quincy assessed the best route to run past the flea-creatures into the slightly ajar castle doors. Yes, he was a Hunter, and a Hunter must hunt, as Eileen had told him, but he had never asked to be a Hunter, and being sucked dry by the flea-beasts seemed a very unpleasant way to die. 

The statues that were strewn about the courtyard depicted a benevolent looking monarchy carved in white stone-a round faced king and queen, proudly holding aloft a child. It did not fit the image that Quincy had in his mind from Alfred’s stories, but surely no one would portray themselves as monstrous heretics. 

Quincy took a cautious step forward, feeling something squish under his boot. Looking down, he saw the remains of a large, maggot-like worm-and even worse, one of it’s fellows besides its mid-leap, manibles outstretched, on its planned trajectory to his face. 

On pure instinct, Quincy ran to the Castle doors, fears about flea-monsters forgotten, kicking up the powdery snow underfoot as he ran. He realized his mistake the moment he heard the heavy leaping and falling of the flea monsters, his sudden movement having attracted their attention. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Quincy yelled as one of the creatures lept in front of him, lashing out with it’s massively long tongue. Without thinking, Quincy’s pistol was in his hand and firing, the beast wincing back as the bullets penetrated it’s bloated abdomen. Taking the opening, Quincy sliced down with his axe. Hardly able to celebrate having taken down one of the beasts, Quincy continued running, ducking in between the doors moments before the other pursuing monster could grab him.

Despite the door being wide enough, the flea-creature lost interest in him the moment he had passed through. The beast stared forward for a moment with it’s empty, black eyes, before turning to go about it’s business of wandering about the courtyard. As the sound of the creature's hops faded, Quincy heard something new. Sobbing. 

He had entered into a small room that opened up to an impressive staircase and landing, the stairs and floor leading to them once richly carpeted, now sadly worn and faded. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, winking in the red moonlight that spilled through the windows.

It was breathtakingly beautiful, and very empty-except for a wizened old man that knelt on the ground facing away from Quincy and scrubbing the immaculately kept stone floor. Quincy knit his brows. Alfred had said all the Vilebloods, save the Queen, were killed-then how was there an old man here?

Quincy approached him, hands up to show he meant no harm. Oblivious to his tapping footsteps that echoed loudly through the high ceilings, the man kept scrubbing, muttering to himself. 

“Oh yes, full moon, castle shows tonight. Tonight, special night. Castle will be visible. Mistress up there, all alone.”

“Pardon me, sir.” Quincy said, drawing closer.

“A shame, a shame it is. Ten years since the massacre, living off rats. Poor Mistress! Naught but the ghosts!”

“Sir?” It was obvious now that the little man before him was not quite human anymore. Wizened and shrunken with a pallor like a corpse, the little man kept scrubbing at the same spot on the floor with his bone thin arms. Quincy was close enough to tap the man’s shoulder when he heard shaky breathing in his ear. A wail shook the air as a sharp pain embedded itself in his side. Quincy hissed in pain, now seeing his attacker. 

Flickering transparent in the moonlight, scarlet trickling from her throat, was a paper-pale woman in a lavishly decorated white dress. In her tightly bound hands was a dagger, dripping Quincy’s own blood. As Quincy frantically jumped back, preparing a blood vial to heal his leaking wound, voices echoed on the air. 

“Bind the woman and children. The men will be cleansed.” A deep voice ordered. The ghostly woman gave a strangled sob, lashing out clumsily with her dagger.

“Belay that!” A woman’s voice echoed in the air sharply. “We are here to kill King Cain, not the maids and children!” Quincy would have looked around, seeking to find the source of these bodiless voices, but at the moment, his entire focus was on not letting the ghost kill him.

“You defy me, Bernice?” The first voice roared. “They will be spared the Wheel, but we will not suffer the Vilebloods to live! Slit their throats!”

A chorus of ghostly voices blocked out what happened next, only a few phrases clear. 

“Monster!”

“Kill the Vilebloods!” 

“No! Only overthrow the King and Court!”

“Traitors! You stand with the Vilebloods!”

Quincy’s axe cleft through the ghostly woman. With a scream, she collapsed into dust, the phantom voices vanishing with her. 

The little man continued scrubbing, oblivious to the slaughter. 

\---Years ago---

Days passed, then weeks. At first, a sighting of beasts and a subsequent hunt was once a week, but as time passed, the monsters became more common. On the day that Alfred was almost certain was New year’s, he and Valtr drug back the bodies of two Scourge Beasts-one to bury, one to...prepare. The trepidation of eating the flesh of the Monsters waned, but Alfred would disguise the truth in metaphors and outright lies to make it through each day.

“We are almost out of supplies.” Valtr remarked as they neared the windmill. “Henryk will be along soon, Gods willing.”

“One of your companions?” Alfred asked, grunting with exertion. The difficulty of dragging one of their kills back home was almost harder than the hunt itself.

“Yes. He’s a proper church hunter, but moonlights with us. He was there when Old Yharnam burned, so he sees the Church a bit differently.”

“I suppose not many people are very happy with the church these days.” Alfred responded. He mentally prepared himself for Valtr to elaborate on why exactly the Church had made many people unhappy, but Valtr went on an equally unpleasant line of questioning.

“What are you planning to do when we part ways, come spring?” Valtr asked. Alfred furrowed his brow, letting go of the beast just outside the Windmill. 

“I...well, once the weather is warm again, I suppose I could go back to Yharnam. I’ll just avoid the area around the Butchershop.”

“Where will you find work? Where will you live?” Valtr asked, stopping as well. Alfred wondered why Valtr carried around the cane if he obviously had no need of it before wondering what he should exactly say.

“I’m certain I’ll figure something out.” At the moment, he was just trying to get through the dull and dim winter days with brief interludes of heart pounding hunts of monsters.

Monsters that he ate, even if the sight of the cooking pot no longer made his stomach churn.

“So you have no idea. I don’t want you to feel like you have no other choice, but the League would be happy to welcome you along.”

“Well...no, I…give me some more time to think.” Alfred said lamely. “I will have an answer by the end of winter.”

Valtr removed his helmet, seemingly pleased with the answer. He studied Alfred’s face for a moment, as if seeing he had been sincere. 

“You need a shave, lad.”

Alfred touched his patchy stubble, raising an eyebrow at Valtr and his seemingly permanent 5’oclock shadow. “You are in a chronic need of one yourself.”

Valtr laughed. “There’s a shaving kit inside. I trust you can handle a razor if you can handle a machete.”

\---

It seemed a shame to shave off what might have been the most impressive facial hair that he had grown, but the look he wanted was sophisticated and cultured, not ‘scruffy fugitive in the woods’. Despite the very real fact he was, indeed, a scruffy fugitive in the woods. 

Alfred peered into the mirror, smoothly running the razor (kept perfectly sharpened by the ever careful Valtr) over his face, watching the stubble come off in the chill foam. His inspiration had been the Well-to-do folks in Yharnam, often visiting from the high Cathedral Ward that would sometimes visit the butcher shops of Yharnam. Not like he ever dreamed of occupying that world-life in a mansion, waited on by servants without any care of his own was as alien as the surface of the moon. At the moment, living somewhere with a warm bed and an expectation of regular meals with meat that he wouldn’t have to kill and fight for seemed more like a dream then anything else. He just wanted to feel stylish for once.

“You missed two spots.” Valtr remarked when Alfred finished, washing off the hair and foam with bone chilling water. Alfred only smiled, touching the stubbly outline of what would hopefully turn into an impressive set of sideburns.

\---

Soft voices awoke Alfred. Curious but unwilling to truly wake up, he cracked one eye open. Valtr sat on the chair by mill’s weathered grindstone, head in hands. A new figure stood in the room a few feet away, more shadow then person and garbed in a heavy cloak. Where a human face should have been, a bird-like beak protruded from under a hat. In his tired state and squinting in the low candlelight, it took Alfred longer than it should have to realize that it must have been a mask. He continued to feign sleep.

“I couldn’t find him.” Her voice was mature and low, with a thick Yharnam accent. “I’m afraid I’ll have to move on.”

“There’s been no trace of him at all, then?” Valtr asked. His voice was tired and heavy.

“The poor man’s gone and vanished. There’s nothing more I can do. No hunters have been killed. He did not take on the madness of the Hunt, but only the horror of the unseen. Yanamura is not my prey.”

“Very well. I’ll leave you to your crusade, and return to mine.” Valtr rose from his seat, possibly to show her out. Alfred, through barely cracked eyelids, saw the beaked face turn to him. He rapidly shut them. 

“A new confederate?” She asked. Wood creaked underfoot, and Alfred felt the uncanny sensation of someone examining him.

“Merely temporarily. Lad got in trouble in Yharnam, and I thought I’d help a fellow outsider. He’s not a bad hunter.”

“So, I’m not the only one who picked up a stray after all. I won’t wake him up.”

“Give the boy my best, Eileen. And, if you could find Henryk for me, I have something to tell him.”

“What about?”

“About this boy, Alfred. He has his own cause. I can recognize that, so unfortunately, he doesn’t wish to perform the vital work of squelching the sickening corruption. But his purpose might be with the Church Hunters.”

“You hate the church.” Eileen said flatly.

“I do.” Valtr seemed to force the next words out. “I hate the wretched institution. But at the moment, our goals are aligned. The Plague will never end if no one slays the beasts. And they have the numbers.”

“He will become my mark if he falls into madness.” 

“That is our lot as Hunters, and your lot as a Hunter of them.” Valtr said evenly.

“Very well. I am not troubled, now that I have a protege.” Alfred clenched his fist under the sleeping bag. He hated that word and the memories it dragged up, but there was no way for this stranger to know this. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Take care, the both of you.” The emphasis on ‘the both of’ made Alfred realize that Eileen knew he had been awake all along. Without another word, Eileen made for the door, he feathered cape rustling mere inches from Alfred’s face.

“Good night, Eileen.” Valtr gave her a salute with his cane.

“Good Night, Master of the League.” There was a wry smile in Eileen’s voice as she stepped out.

\---

Valtr was already awake or perhaps was still awake when Alfred awoke to the smell of breakfast. The man was staring intently at the pot of reheating ‘beef’ from last night’s dinner, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

“Good morning.” Alfred said pleasantly. He wished he could comfort or reassure Valtr, who was obviously grieving a lost friend, but that would reveal that the conversation that he probably thought was private was something he had inadvertently snooped on. Putting two and two together, Yanamura was probably the comrade that had gone mad at the sight of the writhing vermin. Valtr grunted in response.

“Will Henryk be along today?” Alfred asked, dying for any sort of conversation. Valtr never asking questions was a double edged sword, as Alfred needed to talk and be talked to.

“Should be.”

“Rough night?” Alfred ventured. Valtr merely nodded. They sat together in silence for a few uncomfortable minutes before Valtr seemed to shake himself out of it. 

“I’m only going to ask one more time.” Valtr said. “Would you like to join the League.”

Alfred looked down at his battered boots, scuffing the mud. “I...have a mission elsewhere.”

“Alright. I won’t trouble you with the question again.” Valtr put his hands on his cane, and propped his chin up on them thoughtfully.

“If that is so, have you considered becoming a church hunter?” Valtr asked. Alfred blinked a few times, trying to feign surprise.

“You hate-” Alfred started, only for Valtr to hold up a hand to stop him.

“The Church. Yes. But they accept outsiders to hunt, you have talent in slaughtering these creatures, and they provide a warm bed, a roof, and food. Henryk can get your foot in the door, at least.”

“I see.” Alfred said. He missed civilization, even if said civilization was Yharnam. But the chance of someone recognizing him...especially in Cathedral Ward. Well, he certainly looked different now, so he could play any recognition off.

“And I can tell you don’t particularly like this life.” Valtr said, gesturing the fire, the abandoned windmill, the snowy woods.

“I’m sorry if I have grumbled or acted distatified.” Alfred apologized humbly. 

“Not at all, lad, but I can tell you’d rather be around people. And your books.” Valtr gestured. “Not many historical romances in the woods.”

He laughed as Alfred blushed. “Yes, I took a look. I’m not judging you. Two of my comrades act like snakes, and reading about knights and their ladys is hardly strange.” Valtr paused, angling his head strangely. He rose from his seat, and saluted with his cane. 

A person emerged from between the trees, garbed from head to toe in a yellow dyed leather coat topped with a jaunty hat, a hue that made him difficult to see in the pale morning light. He raised his own cane to mirror Valtr’s salute, then raised a heavy bag.

“That is Henryk.” 

Alfred had never been happier to see a stranger. Once Henryk opened the bag, he took out what seemed to Alfred after a while on a limited yet livable diet, the ingredients for a veritable feast. Valtr immediately squirreled away the root vegetables in the windmill where the cold and damp would not ruin them while Alfred stared longingly at the loaves of bread.

“Uh, may I…?” Alfred asked, already hovering a hand over one of the loaves. Henryk nodded, giving Alfred the permission needed to try to eat it as politely as possible while lacking any utensils. It had been a month since he had anything other than dubious meat and the remaining vegetables thrown into the pot.

“Eileen told me that you were thinking about becoming a church hunter.” Henryk removed his hat and lowered his collar. He was well in his years, his thickly curled dark hair peppered with grey and his face lined, but there was a determined set to his bearded jaw combined with a strong glint in eyes. Age had not hindered or slowed him.

Alfred awkwardly attempted to swallow the bite of bread he had ripped off so he could respond quickly, but nearly choked himself in the process. The true response to the question in his head was as follows:  _ Oh, I’ve hardly considered it, it seems that everyone has made the choice for me, but what can I do? I really kerfuffled my last job and I can’t live in these dreadful woods forever. The snakes will be awake any day now and I do not have a light step, meaning that one misplaced tread and a damn adder is going to get me right in the calf and I’ll turn purple and die. My coat is threadbare and my soles are about to succeed from my boots and I’ve been in the same shirt for a week without a bath due to liquid water being lacking so I’m sure I reek more than the swamp did. I’m freezing all the damn time unless I’m right up on the fire and then I have to worry about this wretched coat setting ablaze. I need company and Valtr never talks that much which is fine as I can’t exactly explain my whole situation as it sounds rather preposterous and I don’t want anyone to know that I used to be a living holy blood bag for the church. I think I have enough coins left from the butcher job to maybe survive in Yharnam for a week by myself but the truth is I need money, a real roof over my head and a paying job even if that means fighting more beasts but at least I won't have to eat the damn stringy things in my dinner any more. The sight of a real ham from an actual pig and not some shrieking once-man could bring me to my knees right now. So if this is the way my cart seems to be shoved in I might as well just go along with it.  _ But what actually came out was a rather weak “Ah, well, I’ve been considering it.” He said with a cough. 

Henryk nodded, and seemed to be in no hurry to explain what exactly the job of a Church Hunter entailed, warming himself by the fire. Alfred shifted in his seat, trying to drum up the courage. 

“Um, could you perhaps explain a bit more, perchance.”

“It’s self evident. You hunt beasts for the Church.” Henryk said, his voice neither impatient nor chiding. 

“Yes, but, will there be room and board?”

“Yes.” Came the short reply. Alfred turned from the man away to privately make a face. Henryk seemed to greatly dislike the concept of conversation. 

“Are the beasts in Yharnam, then?” Alfred asked, fishing for any information.

Henryk reached into his yellow coat casually, as if he had not heard Alfred at all. He drew out an old long stemmed pipe, which he then, with infuriating, careful slowness, filled with tobacco. Alfred sat there, fists discreetly clenched, a prisoner of own his politeness. 

Henryk lit the pipe and took a drag. Then, he spoke. 

“Yes. They are.”

Alfred smiled mirthlessly. “Could you elaborate, my good sir?”

“The beast plague reached Yharnam, and people are turning into beasts regularly. They are most active at night, so that is when we hunt.” Henryk exhaled smoke, politely turning away from Alfred. “I’ll help you get your start.”

“In the Church Hunters?” 

“What else?” Henryk gestured with the pipe stem.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Henryk.” Alfred stuck out a hand, now just wanting the baffling conversation over with. Henryk stuck the pipe stem back between his teeth and shook Alfred’s hand with a nod. Without another word, he left. 

Valtr returned, spreading butter on a roll. Seeing Alfred’s baffled frustration, he grinned. 

“Does he dislike me? Is every Church Hunter a malcontent?” Alfred asked, genuinely worried.

“Don’t take it personally. Henryk doesn't like to talk, but he’s a valuable hunter. I think he likes you, actually.” Valtr took a bite of the roll.

“Really?”

“He said more then two sentences.” Valtr chuckled. “His hunting partner is Father Gascoigne, and he doesn’t mince words either.”

“Well, I suppose now I have to worry about a Hunting partner when I leave.” Alfred sighed, grabbing another piece of bread. 

“Cross that bridge when you get to it.” Valtr advised. 

\---

Spring was drawing near. The woods went from snowcovered to thawing-- everything seeming to squish underfoot as snow turned to rain. It was a time of perpetual wetness, the campfire struggling to survive as dry wood became scarce. The temperatures rose, and birds returned to the woods. Crocuses sprouted through the remaining patches of snow, adding pops of color to the once monochrome wilderness. 

Despite the slow rebirth of nature, the beasts kept coming. 

The coming of spring brought joys that Alfred had not expected. His old coat had been wet and then dried so many times that it had stiffened like leather and bore an interesting arrangement of stains. He would have ran back into the old butcher shop just for the promise of a new coat by this point if not for his sense, and at the worst of times he miserably wished for the soft white robes of a blood saint. But with the raising of temperatures, he could leave the miserable garment flung into the corner of the windmill, although the wind brought goosebumps on his bare forearms. 

He had started wandering the woods alone-never too far. Hunters were supposed to work in pairs, but Valtr seemed to become more distant as the date of his return to Yharnam came close. Alfred had brushed it off as the older man being disappointed in his refusal to join. He had the thought that Valtr might be distancing himself so he would miss him less, but Alfred knew better. At least now it was a rare sunny day with the birds singing happily in the trees and the soft green buds sprouting on the branches he ducked under. Everything seemed a picture of normality until Alfred noticed splashes of blood on the few patches of stubbornly remaining snow. 

Valtr had warned him that as things grew warmer, he should always have an eye on the ground-but Valtr said he should have an eye behind and an eye to the side and an eye to the front, and Alfred only had two and he was far too polite to mention that Valtr only had one. But even Alfred- who admittedly had his head in the clouds rather often-would have trouble not noticing the splashes and marks of gore. Scored deeply into the mud, making a chaotic but traceable trail was a tangled mishmash of writing claw and footprints. Whatever had passed this way was a beast-one that was clearly in pain. Alfred turned his head back towards the direction of the mill-a good walk away-and then up at the sky. The sun was still shining, but the clouds were edging in. A good rain would wash away the evidence and direction, and if the beast was in a terribly wounded state, it should not put up much of a fight. Readying his machete, Alfred crept forward, following the tracks. 

The brush had died back during the harsh winter, but there was enough dead tangle to make a racket as Alfred tried his best at stealthy tracking. Not that it mattered, as the beast was making more noise then it’s hunter, loud whimpering wheezes. Finally Alfred found the creature hunched in the midst of a patch of brush, tearing at the bandages wrapped tightly around it’s skull. Despite the sunshine, Alfred felt his blood run cold. 

Every beast that Valtr and himself had fought had been more monster than man. Sure, there were traces of humanity, like tattered clothing or bandages wrapped around grotesque limbs, but they had been comfortably inhuman. This creature still had a man’s body, skinny and frail, something that the wiry fur it had could not disguise. It coughed and wheezed, continuing to dig at it’s head, failing to dislodged the wrapped bandages, but instead cutting into its own flesh, dripping blood. The machete was slack in his hand. The poor creature evoked revolusion like the other beasts, but also pity. The thing was too out of its mind to even realize that it was hurting itself. Killing it would be a mercy, but Alfred could not will himself to strike. 

Either the creature heard Alfred’s troubled breathing, or perhaps he had made a noise without noticing it, but the creature also went very, very still. With a sharp jerk, it turned its head, revealing a broken, smushed face of crooked teeth and glazed, watery eyes, spattered with blood. The thing leered a snarl at him, and Alfred suddenly felt very, very foolish for his moment of pity. The thing bunched up like a spring, then lept with hardly enough time for Alfred to spare in getting out of the way, wildly waving about his machete in hope of hitting some part of his attacker. 

Having missed its target, the thing bunched up again, panting hard before raising up on it’s two legs. Alfred gritted his teeth. 

_ Vilebloods wear a human guise. I won’t be tricked into folly by this beast. _

How he wished he had taken Valtr’s blunderbuss, but the monster seemed winded. Boldness was key to victory as a hunter, so Alfred struck. Leaping forward, he aimed a blow at the creature’s head. Sensing a chance, the creature shot forward to snap it’s jaws on his forearm like a bear trap. Alfred screamed, dropping the machete. In a flash of barbarism conjured up by the hunt and the pain, he realized he wouldn’t need it. It was a terribly scrawny, skinny little creature, already terribly wounded, and he was in his prime, stronger than ever, and already had the little bugger in his fists. 

He gripped the little monster by the throat, making it release its jaws with a strangled scream. Gripping it with both hands, Alfred could feel the twisted thing’s windpipe pulsate, trying desperately to find any air. With one rapid motion, he brained the creature against the nearest tree, and slit its throat with one strike of the machete. The creature slumped over, dead.

Staring down at the body, remembering Valtr usual practice after a successful hunt, a chill ran up his spine. Alfred would leave the beast to the woods to rot. It was too close to human, and his denial could only stretch so far.

On the way back to the windmill, clutching his forearm to prevent himself from bleeding all over the forest and attracting more monsters, a fit of shudders overtook him.

_ It was a person like me _ .

Not me. I’m not turned. 

_ It can happen to anyone _ .

Not to me. 

_ Who eats beasts every day? _

Only because I have to. I won’t be here forever. 

_ You know who also eats beasts? _

Alfred clutched his machete, knuckles white.

\---

“I’m proud of you, lad. Even though you should never hunt alone.” 

“I came across it. I couldn’t just leave it there, I could have lost the trail, and it could have made its way to Yharnam.” Alfred argued. Valtr only nodded as if not feeling like arguing, turning back to the fire. Despite the hunt having happened hours ago, Alfred’s nerves still felt aflame.

Valtr was wearing his blue uniform over his shoulders like a cape, letting the sleeves dangle. Alfred did not think it was quite warm enough for that, but Valtr had been out in the elements for far longer then he had. It was a surprisingly casual act from the man. Alfred was certain that he slept in his uniform, but Valtr also managed to keep it rather clean, considering the circumstances. Alfred was quite jealous, as he himself was unable to keep his own garments half as clean. There was more water now, but everytime he attempted laundry in the nearby creek, he would end up getting twice as muddy the next day

“I’ll be leaving in a week.” Alfred said.

“I’ll walk with you to Yharnam.” Valtr said, his response sounding automatic. 

“Well-Thank you, but I wanted to ask you something.”

“You have never been one for questions.” Valtr went to inspect the logs-soaked from the rainshower that Alfred had predicted earlier. 

“You seemed...private.” Alfred said lamely. “But, well, I...I’d heard stories, and-”

“Stories?” Valtr asked, turning from the firewood. The firelight did strange things to the shadows of his face, making it seem mask-like.

“Yes-but they seemed very...impossible!” Alfred managed out. Of course he’d go and mess this up.

“Yharnamites are cruel, are they not?” Valtr asked, returning to his seat by the fire. Alfred noticed he was without his cane, a detail that he wondered why his brain would pick up in such a panic. “Rumors whispered about foolish, foriegn constables chasing a monster over the mountains. Being picked off one by one, as they lack the native knowledge in dealing with beasts.”

Alfred nodded shallowly. Valtr continued.

“Finally, there’s only one left, only one so brutal and monstrous himself that instead of beast eating man, man eats beast. Whole.” Valtr turned to Alfred, empty eye socket first. 

“Is that the story you heard, lad?”

“-Yes. But it was from the fellow butcher’s apprentices, and they were, well, full of shit, to put it quite plainly-”

“The story is true.” Valtr said casually. 

“You ate a beast whole?” Alfred gasped. 

“By the Gods, lad, that is physically impossible!” Valtr said crossly. “One man, so enraged by the brutal death of his comrades managing down an entire beast? It is a story concocted by a wretched population with polluted hearts. But...a man far from home, mourning the loss of dear friends in a cold, lonely forest with no food or resources?” Valtr gestured to the cooked pot. “This was a luxury I did not have back then.”

“Of course, having to live off a half frozen, raw carcass of such a thing leads to consequences.” Valtr tapped his face, under his empty eye socket. “Ones I never thought could happen. I had no idea about the vermin infesting the monster. But they made themselves known, and I wasn’t going to play a happy host to filthy, disgusting parasites. Thankfully, they choose an easily accessible organ.”

Alfred swallowed hard at this. Valtr smirked slightly, half in amusement, half in sympathy at the discomfort he had caused Alfred. 

“There you go. The true story of the Beast Eater. Far less sordid, don’t you think?”

“It’s...still rather dramatic.” Alfred admitted. “But I can see why that version is not passed along.”

“Well, I found a new purpose. There was no way I could return to my home with the problem raging here. I miss New Loran, but I would fail my lost companions if I just went home.”

“What is New Loran like?” Alfred asked, jumping in before Valtr went silent once more. He had read about New Loran in some of the history books, but it being Yharnam the neighboring countries were usually glossed over.

“It’s just over the western mountains.” Valtr pointed west, towards the distant black ridges peeking over the trees. “I was certain you were from there. Many of the people from the north western ridges look very much like you do.”

“People there that look like me?”

“Well, everyone outside of Yharnam has level eyes and a mostly straight nose, lad. I meant blonde, tall, broad. Sturdy mountain folk. Did you not know your parents?”

Alfred stayed silent. Valtr gave a quick nod. 

“I see.” He said, getting up. “When you finish that mission of yours, travel there sometime. New Loran is far friendlier than this wretched place.”

Alfred gazed west long after Valtr went back inside, staring at the distant peaks. He had never given too much thought to where he came from. His family was the executioners, his parents were just people that had produced him. Anything of his life before coming into the Church’s care was a ragged hole, but perhaps, someday he would try to stitch together the pieces. 

\---

Valtr helped him pack his meagre belongings and walked with him to the edge of the forest. As soon as the pointed roofs and distant towers of Yharnam came into sight, Valtr stopped. 

“Well, Lad. I’m glad to have had you.”

Alfred nodded, unsure of what to say. “I...am glad to have been here. Thank you. Again. You really saved me back there.”

“You made it a less lonely winter.” Valtr shrugged. “I would have loved to have had you as one of my Confederates, but it is not to be.”

They both stared at each other for a moment, green eyes to one-holed helmet. 

“Farewell.” Alfred said, feeling massively awkward. 

Valtr merely nodded, before disappearing into the brush and trees. Alfred steeled himself, gazing up at the Yharnam skyline.

He was coming home.

\---present day---

The ghostly woman seemed content to stand and loudly mourn if left undisturbed, slowly appearing when approached, giving Quincy ample warning to avoid them. Each mourning woman was identical in both stature and attire; blood from the oozing wound on their necks had splattered about the dresses’ collars, their hands had been tightly bound with ribbons, and their eyes blindfolded. Looking at them with the knowledge he had cut down one of their numbers made Quincy sick.  He’d never seen a ghost- not in person, but he knew they haunted after a tragedy. Everything else in Yharnam had been twisted and horrific, but this wasn’t blood and old gods. This was pain, and the people here were prisoners.

These were courtiers and nobles with no knowledge of fighting. The ghostly woman’s clumsy swipes and desperate lungers with her dagger had been proof enough of that, and the ghostly dialogues had given a clue. Perhaps the ghosts and the words on the air was the very castle itself replaying the night of the Executioner’s massacre.  He wondered if the people on the locomotives, much like the ones that had brought him across the continent to Yharnam, were held in their last moments just the same. The stories had been enough to make him fear, whenever the train bumped or rattled, that he was to become a ghost, only known to the travelers who would watch his demise each night. Stories told under covers and around campfires meant to delightfully spook him as a child began to take a more menacing reality as he contemplated how the women had their throats slit, and  were forced to live out the torment of their last moments as twisted spirits forever. Quincy leaned on the stair as he felt the world seem to jolt from under him.  Ghost stories didn’t seem like much fun anymore.

From the very foreboding name, the Executioners had seemed a terrifying lot. But Alfred had been so friendly, so kind. 

_ The gentle hand touches, the companionship, their embrace, the terrible, needing kiss in that miserably lonely room. Alfred’s warmth. _

_ The vicious slavering tone wheneven he spoke of the Vilebloods. The maddened glint in Alfred’s eyes whenever the castle was mentioned, the obsessive devotion to Logarius.  _

_ Quincy’s own deepening devotion to a stranger he knew so very little about. _

He was hardly getting the whole story.  Or perhaps he didn’t want the whole story.  Quincy pounded a fist against the wall as he got up, but he still felt weakness in his knees and legs as he continued onwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most important thing this chapter is that I confirmed that Trains exist in this Soulsbourne universe. Hey it's Fantasy Victorian times it's possible.  
> I wonder if this whole time Alfred has just been waiting at oedon chapter like "Where is my not-boyfriend. I hope he's not at the cursed vampire castle without me :("


	12. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quincy makes it to the roof of Cainhurst castle. In the past, Alfred reunites with old friends after making a new enemy.

He had been able to avoid the sobbing phantoms in the stair landing, but once Quincy stepped foot into the once-sumptuous dining room, nearly ten of the ghostly women slowly faded into view. Gritting his teeth, Quincy mentally planned out the best route through the open doorway that led back outside onto the Castle walls.

The most eerie thing was how clean everything was. The tables had nary a speck of dust-courtesy of the shriveled, miserable servants, no doubt. The floors were old and worn but they shone with new polish. The servants were unable to repair or replace anything, but they obsessively kept everything clean. 

Quincy slowly edged along one of the tables, taking short careful steps, making sure to avoid the distracted, crying ghosts. Something gave him pause however. Hanging on the wall was a series of portraits. Sharp faced nobles with little resemblance to the statues in the courtyard, but dressed in similarly regal garb. A portrait of a dark haired woman caught his eye. Staring into the distance, she cradled a blonde-haired baby in her arms. Sickened, though not by the smell, Quincy covered his mouth. None but the Vileblood Queen survived. Surely, the Executioners would not…?

A shriek sounded behind him, and Quincy tore forward towards the door, scattering dishes in his haste as one of the specters took a swing at him with a ghostly blade. This was not a place to linger and think. The second he rushed through the open doorway, the sounds of the tortured spirits faded.

The ghost women seemed to be unable to pass through the same doorway as Quincy, and he found himself on the ramparts of the castle roof. Despite the Castle seeming massive and maze-like, the path that lay ahead of him had always been abundantly clear. The stone roof above the walkway vanished, leaving Quincy once again under the stars and engorged moon. 

The Castle still had plenty of shocks and surprises. A grotesque statue with the body of a bat and the head of an old man turned  out to be another  wretched guardian of the place, nearly taking Quincy’s head off before it was dispatched by a few careful swipes of his axe. Nothing too dissimilar from the Beasts in Yharnam, but there was far worse ahead. Just before the stone archway over the bridge, Quincy felt an unnatural chill.

A blue shape was unceremoniously flung over one of the stone railings, half covered in powdery snow. Quincy had thought it t o be a discarded cloak at first, until he saw the dangling skeletal hand that poked out from a moth eaten sleeve. The head of the cadaver faced down towards the roiling ocean below, the remains of a long, dark brown braid still swaying. 

_ “Disgusting heretic! You stand with the Vilebloods!” _ The all too familiar deep voice echoed on the wind as he drew closer.

“I stand with justice!” A woman yelled. “I have killed Cain by my own hand. Hemwick is avenged. We have no more need for walking, monstrous fossils like yourself!”

“My own left hand seeks to destroy her Master? Very well. You will be cleansed, just like the rest of the wretches that betrayed me.”

Quincy shuddered, leaving the body to its rest, trying to escape the repeating echoes of steel against wood, and the inevitable scream. 

\----

Alfred paced outside the Chapel, every once in a while glancing up at the red moon like an impatient man would check a clock. Of course, he had stolen a glance at the clocktower that loomed over the city, only to find that the hands had stopped at exactly 9:35. This had made him scowl at the whole situation as the passage of time-or the lack of it-had his nerves feel ready to rattle out of his body.

Sure, he could have just waited in the chapel, but being around strangers after having been so isolated made him even more agitated. The pained groans from the woman hunched over in the chair, the nervous yet eerie grin on the blind beggar’s face, and worst of all, the strangely docile old lady was enough to make him walk out of the chapel as quickly as he could, but worst of all was the Blood Saint. 

Adella’s eyes were downcast, and Alfred was certain she had never even looked at him. Her soft giggles managed to penetrate the silence even outside the chapel, making Alfred reluctantly take his second lead elixir to calm his nerves. 

She was a blood saint just as he once was, although one trained and educated more ‘properly’. He knew it was foolish, but would she be able to sense a kinship between their holy blood? Would he be called selfish for not letting others take what was rightfully his? Or would she continue madly staring and giggling the whole night through?

Either way, being under the churning, storming sky and alien moon felt safer, despite the fact Alfred could feel his gaze traveling upwards to an empty spot on the church roof.

Despite the lead elixir, Alfred felt an ages-old tingle just below his skull as he remembered one of his most solidly unexplainable encounters with the arcane. 

\---years ago---

Patches had many names. The Good Luck, The Hyena, Trusty, and The Unbreakable. Always an opportunist, he had lived in and traveled to many places, usually leaving by way of being chased out. Just the risks of his profession. After needing to flee across the Eastern Mountains, he had settled in Yharnam, a wretched city controlled by a powerful church of Blood. A miserable place, sure, but Patches fit in just fine with the dirt, death and general chaos.

So here he was, leaning against a streetlamp, collar pulled up tightly to ward off the persistent Yharnam chill, bald head gleaming in the gaslight, waiting for a sucker. Liberating fools from their money, and sometimes their lives, was Patches’ profession. 

Yharnam was a rough place, but that suited Patches. A city where a robbed body hardly raised eyebrows was just perfect for him, especially with the worsening beast plague. Sure, he was pushing it by hanging outside this late, but no beasts would dare appear this close to Cathedral ward. He could practically feel the incense burning his nose from where he stood. 

Of course, the average citizen tended to be mistrustful of outsiders, so he had been having trouble finding marks in the general populace. Thus, his prey tended to be foreigners and outcasts, desperate for help.

Peeking up from his watch, Patches could hardly believe his luck when he spotted a round faced young gent appear down the road. A real bumpkin by the look of him, hardly a sly Yharnam native, by his rather threadbare brown coat and ragged scarf. He was quite tall and broad, which was somewhat troubling, but Patches’ method for robbery worked on all, regardless of strength. A predatory grin flashed on his narrow face before he looked down, pretending to be checking his watch once more. He heard the man’s footsteps approach as he thought of the best way to get the stranger’s attention.

To his shock, he heard a soft voice call out. 

“Excuse me, sir, do you know how best to get to Cathedral Ward?” Patches looked up to see the stranger standing before him, hardly veiling his shock. What luck! He had found a natural born sucker!

“Hello there, lad! Are you new here? I can tell. You aren’t a city boy at all, are ya?” Patches put away the watch, taking on the expression of amiability. The younger man smiled at him docily. 

“Well, I lived here a long time ago, but I’m afraid I’m all turned around. If you could just direct me to Cathedral Ward, I would be quite grateful.” He said, nervously scratching at his cheek. 

Patches kept his expression of distaste to himself when he noticed the stubbly start of Sideburns-no, even worse,  _ mutton chops _ on the man’s face. Someday, people would realize that clean shaven and bald-by choice- was the most stylish, practical, and intelligent of hairstyles, but until that day, Patches would simply have to deal with trend-following sheep like the man before him. Or perhaps the man was trying to hide his baby face, something his patchy stubble was too short to fully disguise.

“I can show you where to go-but I’ll do you one better. How about a shortcut, eh?” Patches offered. The man tilted his head, confused. 

“A shortcut? Oh no need, just show me where the bridge is.”

“Look, lad. It’s awfully late, and night is when the beasts come out. Big, nasty thing, they’d make short work of one lone man. The quicker you get to the Cathedral, the safer, eh?”

The man pondered this. Patches rolled his eyes. Good heavens, this was going to be an interesting mark. Perhaps he ought to just leave him here and come back in the morning to see if he had foolishly wandered into the jaws of a beast.

“Alright then. I thank you.” The man bowed-a church bow, at that. Fantastic. A cleric. Holier than thou types boiled Patches’ blood, and the Church of Yharnam was especially foul. From his view outside, it seemed that all the trouble stemmed from the Healing Church, but he had to owe it to them. If they had not sown all this chaos, he would have to go and find marks elsewhere.

“Follow me, my friend. Your pal Patches will show you the way.” Patches turned with a dramatic flutter of his thick black coat, grinning once out of sight. His only worry was that the man might not be carrying much money, but the satisfaction of killing or at least inconveniencing a Cleric was delicious. 

The man happily followed. Nothing but fluff between this man’s ears, for sure.

Patches had familiarized himself with the city during his tenure. Yharnam was blessedly home to a very large, very open and very dangerous sewer. Just one careful push, a day’s wait for the body to get caught on something for him to loot, and the robbery would be done. No one seemed to care about another disappearance with the beasts, and the city guards would not even bother to investigate.

The man hummed cheerfully behind him, irritatingly. 

“So, what brings you to the city, friend?” Patches asked.

“I intend to become a church hunter. The beasts were becoming troublesome back home, so I wish to do some good and help cleanse the streets of the creatures.”

“A lofty goal!” Patches said, rolling his eyes once more. The windows on each side of the narrow streets were shuttered tightly. No witnesses. Perfect. He could smell the foul odor of the sewer already. His companion coughed. 

“Um, sir? I fear that we may have taken a wrong turn.” Patches looked back, seeing his companion had pressed his scarf to his nose in an attempt to block out the odor seeping from the nearby sewer.

“No, not at all. The walkway over the sewer leads to Cathedral Ward.” Patches gestured to the warehouse. “Much faster than the bridge. Here, step in front for a moment, yeah?” Patches graciously stepped aside. His companion hesitated, before taking a step forward. Patches grinned widely as he saw the coin purse that the man had foolishly tied to the belt at his waist. Well, that certainly simplified things. Just a quick grab before the shove, and he would not have to climb down to loot the corpse and fend off the rats. Perfect!

Patches followed the man down the stairs, the lad often looking back at him, nervous about the right way to continue. Patches would nod encouragingly, seeming to calm the man’s nerves. What a trusting life this stranger must have led, to rely so on strangers. 

Finally, they reached the sewer walkway. The man looked down into the depths, hearing the rats scurrying about below with a concerned expression. 

“Nothing to worry about, yeah? We are up here, they are down there.” Patches said. “Keep going, we will take the ladder up outside.”

“Of course!” The man said nervously, continuing. The warehouse’s ceiling ended, opening to the uncovered part of the sewer. Blinking in the bright gaslight, the stranger peered down once more at the depths of the sewer. 

“Quite the drop, eh?” Patches remarked, creeping up behind his companion. He was unsure that the drop would be high enough at this location, but a chance like this was rare to come by. He did not even have to direct the man’s attention to the depths with a promise of treasure!

“Yes, quite. It makes my head spin.” The man replied. Patches grinned widely and aimed a sound kick at the man’s lower back. Patches landed a solid blow in the center of the stranger’s broad back and snatched his coin purse in the same fluid motion. Artfully done, indeed! 

The stranger yelped as he lost his balance, pitching forward into the sewer with a scream. Patches cackled when he heard the splash.

Patches crept close to the edge, looking down at the man, face up in the muck, illuminated by the faint gaslight and the waning moon above. The look on the man’s face was delicious-confusion turning to betrayal and finally, fury.

“Ehe Heh heh! this is what I do, my friend! It’s what you deserve, of course, you damn wannabe cleric.Thanks for saving me the trouble of having to climb down there once the rats are done with you. The only miracle here is your wits are as fat as you are! Nyah hah hah hah!” Patches crowed, watching the man struggle to right himself in the muck.

Patches strode off, happily tossing the coin purse up and down. Well, it was not very heavy, but it was money, and the fact that he had inconvenienced and robbed some idiot cleric made his victory all the more sweet. 

Of course, it would have been better if the fall killed him, but the fool would soon be torn apart by the giant rats or whatever abominations lurked in the sewers. 

\---

Alfred struggled to stand, unable to find firm footing in the quagmire he had been cruelly thrown into. Finally righting himself, he took a step forward, joints and bruised muscles screaming, to only slip and fall again. He lay in the muck, wheezing as every breath made his right lung feel like it had been lit aflame, trying to process what had just happened. Alfred forced himself to not cry out in horror when he realized what he had been kicked into. No doubt the pathetic little bastard was listening, and he would not give the worm the satisfaction. His pal Patches, indeed! Shame on himself for believing in human kindness and generosity! Not every outsider was as noble as Valtr, it seemed.

The last few years had been a miserable march of tragedies, slights, indignities, and now here he was, literally in the gutter, covered in the unspeakable, and Alfred knew that he had finally had enough. 

Blessed adrenaline finally kicked in, the remains of his pain turning into fuel for the righteous fury burning in his heart. He forced himself up, looking around furiously. There had to be a way back up and out, Alfred thought as he stomped along the sewer way, keeping his eyes upwards so as not to see the filth beneath that spattered on his boots and his coat. Alfred slowly put his hands to his face and hair to check if they had remained clean, only to find splattered muck drying. He bristled with rage, finally spotting a ladder. 

That wretch was going to die.

\---

Patches hummed joyfully, counting the coins in an alleyway. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose. Strange, he had left the sewers behind streets ago, why did he smell that foul stench-

He shrieked as a massive hand clutched his throat, seeing the face of a man contorted in fury inches from his own. Oh Gods! The stranger from before, splattered in muck! How the hell did he manage to get out?

Alfred snarled as he lifted Patches up by the collar off the ground, ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder. Patches’ dagger clattered to the cobbles uselessly.

“H-hold on there, friend! I get these urges see? I can hardly help it now, can I?” Patches wheezed, kicking his feet uselessly. “I didn’t mean it, you aren’t stupid-or fat! You just look very healthy, excessively so-grk!”

“You tried to kill me by kicking me into a foul sewer, you stole my money, and you think that’s what I took offense too, you pathetic bastard?!” Alfred hissed in his face. Patches winced at the spittle.

“Aren’t you clerics supposed to be peaceful, yeah? Men of the church and all that?” He whimpered.

Alfred laughed mirthlessly, pulling Patches’ face close to his own. 

“I’m not a cleric, you bloody fool. I’m an Executioner.” He declared, cold green eyes boring into Patch’s terrified face. The man did not grasp the significance. 

“You're a hangman?” Patches managed out. Alfred sighed, and threw him bodily against a wall. The man gathered himself up and groveled pathetically at Alfred’s worn boots. 

“Come on, mate. Have some mercy, yeah? Let the judge and jury have their say?”

Alfred kicked him in the ribs in response, making Patches fly back from force of the blow.

“Alright, alright! How about this, I give you a cut of my coin, and we put this behind us, yeah? You don’t want a murder staining your career as a Hunter and Hangman, right?”

“I’m not a damned hangman, you idiot!” Alfred roared. Patches shrank back.

“Okay, but riddle me this-the city police goes out tomorrow, and finds yours truly's body, yeah? Then what?” Patches bargained. Surely the fool had no idea that the city guard would probably be happy to find his corpse.

Alfred picked up the man’s dagger, turning it this way and that in the gaslight to examine it. Patches whimpered as he realized the man had a practiced hand. 

“I don’t think there is going to be a body to be found.” he whispered darkly, the gleam of the dagger reflected in his wild green eyes. He had fled the city in the first place in fear of what the city guard would do to an outsider, but now? Rage had cleared Alfred’s head of all possible consequences.

Something in Patches snapped. Grabbing his backup knife from his boot, he swiped wildly at Alfred, taking advantage of the man flinching back to flee. He ran, cursing his luck as he heard the heavy footfalls of his pursuer behind him. Patches had to get out of this city, out of this country where the average citizen was aware of his game and plump, mild mannered, foolish clerics transformed into knife wielding madmen.

Patches, untrusty, unlucky, and very breakable, fled, looking behind him to see Alfred keeping pace, his ruined coat flapping behind him. Ironically, the pursuit had led them both to Cathedral Ward with the Cathedral coming into sight.

Patches stumbled. If he could get to the Chapel of Oedon, he could spin a story about a wicked stranger trying to gut him. They’d believe him, looking so roughed up, and who would listen to the wild eyed, terrifying young maniac covered in offal? He would get out of this mess, he always did. He turned back, only a few hundred feet from the Chapel to see his pursuer starting to lag behind him, a valiant effort for a man who had fallen so far. 

“Hah! Can hardly keep up, can ya? I’ll be keeping your coin, too! Nyahahahah-” Patches was interrupted by a sudden explosion of sparks before his eyes. He faltered, stumbling once more. Something grabbed his body like a child picking up a doll, and pulled him forcefully upwards.

The last anyone saw of Patches the man was the scoundrel suddenly being yanked up in the air by an unseen force. Alfred stopped short as he saw the thief screaming and writhing in an invisible grip. A sensation of pins and needles rattled on his frontal lobe at the sight, making the space between his ears seem too tight for a second. As Alfred staggered, he heard the clunk of his own coin purse, along with a larger, heavier bag that jangled loudly as it hit the stones. Forcing himself to look upwards, Alfred’s eyes went wide as he saw hapless Patches carried higher and higher before vanishing in an explosion of sparks with a final screech. 

Breathing hard from the exertion as well at the sudden metal abuse, and doubting what he had just seen, he approached the two fallen bags cautiously. Alfred looked up at the seemingly normal Chapel roof, before looking at the two coin purses. He picked up his own, and with some thought, also took the heavier bag. 

“Well, he will hardly be needing it anymore. Bastard.” He spat, catching his breath. Alfred placed a hand on his side, realizing that maybe he had not been so lucky in his fall as he had thought. With the rage’s adrenaline wearing off, his right side felt like it had been trod on by a particularly heavy and foul tempered horse. What a miserable return to Cathedral Ward! Injured, nearly robbed, out of breath and covered in muck.

A massive, unseen creature blinked her multiple eyes, adjusting her many armed grip on the building. She cleaned an eye with a tendril as she watched the mortal leave, reflecting on the entertaining shows the ants put on for them. The bald headed mortal would make an entertaining apostle for their youngest in the Nightmare, but she would let the larger one go. One of the greater ones had already laid his claim on it, and she would not interfere with the Formless one’s plans.

\---

“You are very lucky indeed. No broken bones, only sprains, the expected bruising, a few cuts, albeit with a partially collapsed lung. I suppose you landed on your right side.” The doctor said. Alfred nodded, clutching his side. 

“Watch your step in the future.” The Doctor added, jabbing the blood filled syringe in Alfred’s leg. Alfred reflected on the fact that it felt strange to be the one receiving the blood, not giving it. It was not his first time-he had been hurt in the woods, and had been clumsy in the butchershop, but it would always feel odd.

“Take blood, as usual, but I also suggest you take this for the pain.” The doctor said, handing Alfred a small bottle.

“It looks rather odd. What is it?” Alfred asked, turning the small clay vial in his fingers. The vitalizing flow of the Good Blood tingled in his veins, making his fingers twitch slightly around the bottle. Did his own blood once make people feel this way?

“Lead elixir. It can dull any pain, helps with sleep, calms the mind and nerves. Scholars delving into the Eldritch Truth discovered it, another gift to mankind from the arcane. They keep the recipe secret, but it certainly contains the Blood, of course. I’d suggest you take that now.”

Alfred tipped the small vial back, tasting the oddly sweet liquid. It was thick like syrup, with the faint taste of the Blood, but it was overpowered by a different, indescribable flavor. The throbbing ache in his ribs and shoulder began to slowly dull, his whole body becoming numb in a rather extraordinary way. He sighed with relief.

“Thank you.” Alfred said gratefully. His head was swimming in the most pleasant way possible.

“It’s easy to get a hold of for the Hunters. It’s quite necessary to those on the Hunt as it lets them fight on without worrying about the pain. With that in your veins, you won’t even flinch when a beast bears down on you. Now, I’d get to the Cathedral and see if they’ll let you in the Hunter’s showers.” The Doctor wrinkled his nose.

\---Present day---

The cold was biting. Quincy had not noticed it at first, but as he ascended the stone ramparts and hallways, the temperature dropped accordingly. The wind whipped his coat against his legs remorselessly, and he held onto his hat with both hands. He was relieved when a doorway opened up, promising relief from the stinging snowflakes and fanged wind.

If the entrance hall had been impressive, then this new room was doubly so. Bookshelves on each wall, groaning under the weight of the hundreds of leather bound tomes neatly placed on each shelf. 

The castle reminded him of the ruins from his homeland, but the vast number of books brought to mind a darker fable. Lordra was a land of ghosts in the people’s memories, the strangest of which being the maddened crystal dragon. The creature had lurked in a tower full of books, performing wicked and cruel experiments while its own mind ebbed away. The dragon’s lair must have looked similar to the vast library he was now creeping through.

Unfortunately, the library was not only packed with books, but also home to more of the sobbing spirits and oblivious servants. At least, that had been what Quincy had hoped, as he carefully edged his way around a bookshelf. One of the shriveled little men looked down at him from it’s perch on a moveable stairset, and gave him a yellow toothed grin before raising a blow gun to its mouth. Darts flew at him from all angles, too fast to possibly be dodged. The needles stung, but they were hardly deadly. Quincy knew what being poisoned felt like (thanks to that time in the miserable swamp), and was certain that the darts were not venomous. He was ready to write off the projectiles all together, until the previously uninterested ghosts gathered in the center of the vast library suddenly became very interested indeed.

It was now that Quincy realized that these blindfolded phantoms were cradling their own severed heads in their arms-which they now rose with an ear shattering shriek. Blood sprayed from their gaping neck-holes in a spectral shower. Quincy covered his ears, paralyzed at the agony going on inside his head. Barely audible above the tortured screams were the horrible, intangagle voices.

_ “Cut it’s heads off, it’s quicker…” _

_ “Logarius said to just slit the throat.” _

_ “Just kill the bitches, who cares? At least we don’t have to smash them to a pulp too.” _

__ One of the intact spirits was stalking him, her silver dagger held aloft. Unable to move as her sisters split his head open with their screams, Quincy shut his eyes, accepting his upcoming and soon to be most recent death.

__ As the library faded, a regal, soft voice echoed in his mind.

__ _ “My beloved, I cannot return to you. I will stay here, haunting the place where we were so unjustly murdered, until justice is finally wrought.” _

\---

Philip slammed his axe into the skull of the monster, fur, tattered bandages, and gore flying. When he had first started hunting, he had not been prepared for the sheer amount of blood and viscera the job entailed. He removed the blade with a grunt, avoiding looking at what remained of the creature’s face. There would always be slight traces of humanity in the beast’s eyes, and he would lose his stomach for the job altogether. 

“Every night, there’s more.” Constance hissed behind him, whipping her threaded cane back into shape and fixing her top hat atop her close cropped dark hair. Hunters always hunted in duos. The church claimed it was for teamwork, but Philip knew it was insurance if one turned, as hunters often did during the blood lust and heat of battle. The agreement with cooperation was to dispatch their one time comrades if they turned into monsters.

Constance was a dependable partner, a true Yharnumite, as her mitchmached features proclaimed. She wore it well somehow, making an oddly shaped nose and a slightly higher left eye a proud quirk. She refused to wear a mask, donning a top hat on the night of the hunt. It seemed foolish to Philip, but he understood why. Elegance was another way to proclaim one’s remaining humanity, and going maskless showed the world that Constance was not hiding any beastly affliction under her mask, only Yharnum’s twisted features.

She reminded him, in a heartrending way, of Bernice.

“The entire city stays barricaded all night, people are too scared to even walk in daylight, and the nights seem to only get longer, despite it being nearly the end of spring...” Philip sighed, leaning against a blood splattered wall. He lowered his mask, listening for any shrieks or howls.

“-And the damned Vicar stays hidden in Chapal Ward.” Constance spat. “Dawn’s comin.” She glanced up at the greying sky furiously. “Ought to head back. Bet Father Gasc’ and Henryk have already presented the hanky to end the Hunt. Keep an eye out for the new hunters-If they lived, that is.”

“New hunters?” Philip asked, heaving himself up from the wall, woolen gloves snagging on dirty brick. 

“The church is strugglin’, Phil. They’ll hire any maniac that can hold a blade and pistol.” She slammed her cane on the uneven cobbles, scowling.

A shriek sounded in the distance, putting both hunters on alert instantly. Without needing to speak, they rushed down dirty alleys, jumped over knocked down wrought iron fences, and stumbled on cobbles, in Philip’s case, towards the source of the scream.

A second scream sounded, only to be cut short with the painful whack of a Kirkhammer. A large, powerful figure pounded the creature, a snarling monster caught somewhere between man and shaggy furred wolf, mercilessly, splattering blood and gore all over his black hunter’s coat. 

The standard issue they give new hunters, Philip noticed, hat and collar covering the face to prevent possible infection. Despite having no partner in sight, it did not seem like the lone hunter was facing any issues, as the wolfish Scourge Beast soon lay dead at his boots. He panted, wide shoulders rising and falling. Must be an outsider, like Father Gascoigne, or someone with a family not native to Yharnum, as the citizens of the city tended to be lanky skin and bones.

_ Where did they find this oxen?  _ Philip wondered

The stranger sighed wearily, dropping the now bloody hammer with a heavy thunk on the cobbles, and pulled off the mask and hat, and shook out a mane of sweaty and compressed, but still recognizably blonde hair.

Philip gasped as he turned his head, showing his face in profile. A familiar aquiline nose, weary eyes...could it be?

“Alfred?” He breathed, unable to believe what he was seeing.

The stranger-no, his old friend-looked around confused, trying to find where the voice had come from before turning fully around. His face lit up like a sunbeam, his green eyes instantly brightening. He pulled down the high collar of the hunter’s coat, revealing a wide grin.

“Philip!” Without a trace of weariness of before, Alfred practically charged towards Philip, making the man take a step back instinctively, and enveloped him in a crushing hug. Philip laughed, uncaring of the blood and gore splattered on both their coats. 

“My little brother, all grown up!” Philip chuckled, holding Alfred at arm’s length. “Heavens, you really have grown up.”

Alfred was a far cry from the sickly, anemic young man that he saw last. He must have shot up another six inches, at least, making him officially a head taller than Philip. He looked, and must have, truly be strong as an ox to wield such a hammer, and heavens he looked like it, his bulk that of true strength, a thick, albeit soft, core and strong arms. He had happily, ethustically trained alongside Philip and the others, but without the demands of Blood Sainthood, Alfred had been able to reach his true potential. Philip had guessed that his friend was native to the western lands just over the mountains, where the people grew strong and tall compared to the willowy, scrawny Yharnamites.

Despite these changes, Philip braced himself for the inevitable flood of words. Alfred would no doubt remain a chatterbox, even after all these years.

“I have been training! I remembered all the old executioner regimes, and I have been hunting foul beasts-”

“Hold up, this man is your brother? You look nothing alike. He’s twice your size, for one.” Constance interrupted. Alfred looked miffed, glancing at Philip, but Philip merely laughed again, unbothered. 

“It’s...sort of an adoptive thing. We were both members of the Executioners, and I took him under my wing. Alfred, this is Constance, my hunting partner.” Philip explained. Philip wished he did not see the joyful grin on Alfred’s face as he lied about him being a true executioner. After all these years, he still held on to that toxic dream?

“Where is your partner, Blondie.” Constance crossed her arms.    
“Ah. Well. it seems that in my eagerness to cleanse the streets of beasts, he seems to have been left behind.” Alfred looked over his shoulder, frowning. Heavens, were those mutton chops? Philip shook his head, smiling. At least he had the proper face for them, framing his still boyish face well. Unlike some of the folks in Yharnam he saw sporting such facial hair, Alfred must take great care maintaining the sideburns if they looked passable after a night of hunting.

“You abandoned your partner?” Constance hissed and grabbed Alfred by the collar, yanking him down to her level. Alfred shot Philip a shocked, hurt look. ‘What did I do?’ his eyes asked, looking to Philip for help. Philip shook his head. Hunters were never to leave their partners behind.   
“You damned idiot! Only an outsider would be so stupid!” Constance spat furiously. “What happens if one of you is overwhelmed! What happens if one of you turns!”

“That won’t happen-” Alfred started, only for Constance to roughly push him back, unable to shove him off balance.

“It can, and it will, and it has happened before! The way you were fighting, I’d say you are half blood drunk already!”

“Constance.” Philip tried.

“We are not heading back to the cathedral until we find your partner. If anythin’ happened to them, you’ll never go on another hunt, unless the church is that desperate to keep on someone so foolish!” Constance strood off, whipping her head back to make sure the men would follow.

“Damn beast.” She hissed under her breath.

Alfred stared at the cobbles ashamed, his ears bright red from embarrassment. Philip put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry to say it, but she’s right. You are never supposed to leave your partner behind on the night of the hunt. The church might punish you.”

“I was only trying to help...Justin was doing fine, I saw the creature, and I had to give chase.” Alfred mumbled, fiddling with his rifle. 

“Come on, let's follow her. I don’t want you in any more trouble.” 

“Will you vouch for me?” Alfred asked, a note of hope in his voice. Philip sighed. “I will report what happened. I can’t lie for you.” Alfred hung his head, and miserably followed Constance like a shamed dog. 

Most beasts roaming the streets had been dispatched, and if Justin was alive and well after Alfred ran off in excitement, well, he would have little more to fear than a slap on the wrist and a chewing out from Henriett and Henryk. And Father Gascoigne, but the man was never much for speaking. He would probably receive a stern stare Gascoigne, at most.

Hopefully Justin would be fine, and Alfred would be excused for being so excitable. Alfred was a talented hunter. He just needed a more experienced and careful hand to reign him in. Philip set his face, determined. He could be that guiding hand for his brother.

\---

Thankfully, they ran into Justin on the way back to the cathedral. Philip soon realized that the price of this good fortune was to listen to the old man rant at poor Alfred the whole way back.

“Heavens! You should not be leaving folks behind like that, now!” Justin berated. Rail thin and clad in white Church hunting robes, Justin could have not seemed more different then his assigned hunting partner. Alfred’s stare was boring a hole into the ground at his feet as he shuffled along, looking quite miserable as Justin continued, his lined face red behind his thick spectacles.

“I’ve been running a-hither and yon to keep up with you! These old legs hardly work as well as they used to, you know! Honestly, I try to do my civic duty, and I get set up with some spring chicken rushing all about the place, charging after every beast he sees.”

“I apologize-”

“I understand that you are young and chock full of vigor, but spare a thought for an old man, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred mumbled. Philip smiled as Justin’s rant continued. Between his experience with Logarius and Father Gascoigne on the battlefield and hunt, it was possible that Alfred had no idea that the usual old man would have difficulties in keeping with someone decades (or in Logarius’s circumstances, centuries) younger. 

“Now, I’m sure you are to get an earful from the Hunt’s leaders. They won’t be as kind as I am, no sir!” Justin crowed. 

“Oh dear...will they? You were found safe and sound!” Alfred bargained, a hint of worry edging his voice.

“Hmmf. Back in my day, they’d have you scrubbing chamber pots!” Justin huffed.

“No one uses those anymore, Justin.” Philip said, patting Alfred’s shoulder. “I’m sure there might be a penalty, though.” Alfred merely gave him a defeated look.

“Damn water closets.” Justin grumbled, to no one in particular. Philip looked ahead at Constance, who was still furiously striding ahead of them.

“You alright, Connie?” He asked gently, attempting to catch up. Constance merely grunted in response.

“Your brother is a right idiot.” She muttered as Philip caught up to her furious stride. 

“He’s new. He’s always been eager.”

“He’s a meathead.”

“He’s quite educated-'' Philip started in defense.

“A church education is not common sense.”

“Alright. Yes, he lacks that.”

Constance grunted.

“I thought you were the last of those fanatics.”

“Of the Executioners? Well, Alfred is a special case.” Philip admitted. 

“Oh, is he now?” 

“He was too young to go on siege.” Well, that was not really a lie. Even though that was only part of the story.

“Ugh. Well, he was not kicked out for being sensible like you, obviously.” Constance chuckled, looking back at Alfred. “Look at him, tail between his legs. Henriett might go easy on him ‘cause he looks so pathetic.”

\---

Unfortunately, Henriett was not swayed.

“Ever since the time of the Old Hunters, the hunting of Beasts has always been done in groups.” Henriett stated. She stood in front of the ornate Church window, illuminated by the rising morning sun. Despite the sunlight, the cathedral’s sideroom felt rather chilly. Alfred wanted to sink into the pew with shame.

“Ludwig had his Blades.” Henriett touched a shining pendant around her neck. “The Old Hunters worked in groups. The Kegs had each other. Only the fabled Hunter of Hunters worked alone, and they stalk a different prey.”

“I apologise-” Alfred started, trying to cut the lecture short. Henriett ignored him and continued.

“These days, we can only manage a partner system. We lack their resources, workshop, and numbers, and we are not scouring the Yharnam populace for hunters again. Do you know why Hunters always hunt together, Alfred?” Henritt asked, fixing him with her stern gaze. Alfred looked down at his scuffed boots.

“Because one of us could be overwhelmed by beasts, or possibly turn.” Alfred answered quietly.

“Exactly. I understand the eagerness on the hunt. Every hunter feels it. That excitement is the gateway to beast-hood. When the hunt takes hold of you, you lose your humanity. Hold yourself back, and for heaven’s sake, keep close to your partner, especially someone as elderly as Julien.”

Henriett sighed, walking to her makeshift desk.

“I thought that with his wisdom of age and your...boyish exuberance, you could perhaps balance each other out.” Alfred frowned slightly. Henriett looked hardly older than himself!

She shifted through papers. “Julien has requested for a different partner.”

“Could, could I perhaps hunt with Philip? I know him, and-” Alfred started before trailing off nervously. He went back to picking at his gloves. 

“Philip suggested that to me the moment you returned.” Henriett said, leaning against the window sill with a sigh. “Alfred, we are truly, truly lacking in hunters right now. You have the combat skills, but you lack discipline. I don’t want to have another promising young hunter buried.”

“I….I apologize.” 

“I suppose, as your first offense, we can let this slide. Consider yourself on probation. If you slip up again, we will have to send you home.”

Alfred stared down silently. Henriett furrowed her brows.

“Do you not have a home to go to?”

“I...I live in the hunter barracks, near Oedon chapel.”

“Many Hunters do. Do you have family nearby?” Henriett asked. Alfred renewed picking at his gloves with vigor. 

“No. I-I am saving up my pay. I could rent a room, perhaps. Of course, I won’t need to. It won’t happen again!” 

The silence made Alfred squirm. Why did she need to pry? 

“Very well. See Philip as soon as you can to discuss tactics.” Henriett said, gazing out the window. “Remember what I said.”

“Yes ma’am.” Alfred bowed, and quickly made his way out of the room, ears red.

\---

“You took another shower lad? Saw you heading in here yesterday.” A fellow hunter, a common Yharnamite remarked as he peered over the bathhouse stall. The communal showers for the Hunters did not trouble Alfred, as the Executioners had a similar arrangement. This one was smaller, and somewhat worn, despite its newness. The tiles were already cracked and the white plaster ceiling was stained from moisture.

“Well, yes. I needed to wash off the dirt and grime from the hunt.” Alfred responded, concentrating greatly on shaving. He was still feeling rather shamed from earlier, he did not need his cleaning habits picked at as well. Aware of the fact he was possibly being watched, he attempted to casually secure the towel tighter.

“That’s not good for health, you know. Opening the pores and all to dirt ‘n disease.” The man continued. Alfred heard the shower head squeak to life. 

“This is me weekly shower. Used to do monthly, afore I got into the hunting business. I get grimy rather quick, now.”

“Well, that’s wise. Seven days without a wash makes one week.” Alfred responded, carefully navigating the razor an inch from his jaw, keeping his face close to the mirror. The catastrophe months before where he had accidently shaved one chop down to the sideburn and needed to even them both out still haunted him. 

“Huh? Why would that make me weak?” The man asked, confused. Alfred sighed. 

“Just a play on words. Pay it no mind.” Alfred rinsed off the foam, smiling at his work. Nothing like a wash and a shave to start feeling better again. His mood was turning lighter at the thought of speaking to his old friend. Philip’s heresy had been nearly forgotten in his lonely years, and surely Philip would have changed his mind after the horrible tragedy. Alfred frowned. Would Philip know? He would not spring it on him immediately. 

The traitorous thought “Would he even care?” was quickly squashed. What a horrible thing to consider. Even if Philip fell prey to heresy, something surely brought about by possible bewitchment, he would still care deeply about their family. 

The fact that he was sitting in the public shower room, clad in nothing but a towel hit him the second the heavy door was opened by another hunter, freezing him with a relentless draft. Alfred resolved to think in less vulnerable places from then on.

\----

Despite the danger in the rest of the city, Cathedral Ward remained relatively safe and lively. The Hunter’s nocturnal lifestyle turned the usual drinking times on their head, but the bars and taverns in Cathedral Ward were happy to serve the crowd of Hunters who would show up in the early morning before they would head off to their rest. Philip nodded to Alfred as the man tried to sidle into the tavern as inconspicuous as his height and bulk would allow, just in time to catch the end of a conversation of barmaids loitering nearby.

“Well, you know what they say about men with big noses.” One said, chuckling.

Alfred perked up, suddenly interested in the conversation as he sat next to Philip.

“What? What do they say?” He asked Philip, loud enough for the two to hear. Philip merely chuckled and shook his head.

“You aren’t going to enlighten me?” Alfred asked, as Philip swiftly took a drink rather than respond, a heady cocktail of traditional spirits and Good Blood. The two maids tittered in response to Alfred’s question before busying themselves. 

“Nevermind that, let's talk about earlier.” Philip said, withholding a laugh.

“Oh, heavens. This again? I am truly, dearly sorry.” Alfred looked the very picture of sincerity, still carrying the wounded puppy-dog look in his eyes. “I-I came here because Henriett said you are to be my partner from now on. I promise I won’t be so reckless!”

“Spectacular!” Philip could not help but smile. Having Alfred at his side again sounded wonderful. Surely, he could be the firm yet guiding hand that would keep him from dashing off like an excited hound once again.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” Alfred said, obviously desperate to change the subject from his mistakes.

“I did, too.” Philip admitted. ‘ _ Why didn’t you come with me? _ ’ he wanted to ask. “I thought…”

“ _ That you died with the rest _ .” hung in the air, unsaid.Alfred looked down at the table sadly, not responding. Philip clapped his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry. The memories must still be fresh.” Philip said.The last thing he wanted to do was dredge up their fight during their last meeting, and there was still so much of the boy who had begged him not to leave in Alfred’s face, something that time nor questionable facial hair could obscure. 

“Where have you been?” Alfred asked, the question sounding almost like an accusation. 

“I left Yharnam totally.” Alfred’s eyes went wide. “I went over the mountains. To travel, doing odd jobs here and there. I thought I’d never come back.” Philip took another gulp of his drink, leaving Alfred waiting in rapt silence. “It’s hardly that interesting.”

“It is to me! I have never traveled out of Yharnam before!” Alfred argued. “Why did you come back?”

“I heard about the beasts, and I wanted to help. Besides, if I ignored it, well, all the towns, lands, places I’d been to outside of Yharnam would end up having beasts appear there eventually.” Philip shrugged. Alfred looked at him with admiration. 

“I felt the same way. Like it was my duty!” 

“Well, where have you been all this time?” Philip asked. ‘ _ And when did you get legs like tree trunks and arms that can swing a kirkhammer one-handed when the last time I saw you, you looked like death? _ ’, was the unsaid question. 

“Ah.” Alfred put a finger to his lips in thought, trying to find the best way to tell a long story. “Well, Doctor Camilla found a job for me, after the Executioners...left…which was all well, until I got in some trouble.”

“Some trouble?”

“I...well. I may have swung at a fellow apprentice.”

“ _ Alfred _ .” 

“He and the rest had been goading me for quite some time! Was I to stand there and let myself be stabbed like a good little outsider?” Alfred defended himself, leaving hundreds of questions in his wake.

“Stabbed? What kind of job was this?!”

“Oh, butchery.” Alfred said flatly, as if that answered anything. Philip blinked a few times. 

“The other apprentices were not keen on me.” He said, giving some explanation. 

“Obviously.” Philip said, taking another sip.

“It was not as bad as when I was robbed and thrown into the sewer. Of course, well, it was me who drew the knife that time, but it wasn’t my knife, see, it was his. He had another knife, unfortunately, but he missed.”

Philip choked on his drink. His Alfred getting into knife fights was something he would have trouble reconciling with his image of the man.

“So, I had to flee for some time. Er, this was before being robbed. That was months ago, this was a year ago. So, I fled far into the woods.”

“Hemwick Woods?”

“Yes, but it was winter, so all the snakes were asleep. Then I fell into a frozen pond, but a gentleman with one eye helped me out. So I lived with him in the windmill for sometime, for his companions were hibernating, except for the one who went mad and vanished, so he was rather lonesome.”

“Hibernating?” Philip asked. Alfred nodded.

“They were raised and nurtured by a snake, see.”

“I’m afraid I do not, but continue.”

“After that, he asked me if I would join his cause in killing these pests, but I already had a cause in my heart that I could not turn away from, so once spring came I returned to Yharnam, and here I am!”

Philip was silent, letting the everyday sounds and noise of the crowded tavern wash over him. Alfred smiled expectantly. 

“Quite the story.” He said. 

“It is! Quite!” Alfred beamed, sticking out his hand to Philip. “I am excited to embark on our new partnership.”   
Philip took it, smiling. 

“As am I.”

\---

That night, tucked cozily in his cot in the Hunter’s barracks, Alfred had a pleasant dream. Standing in the Executioner’s Workshop’s lush garden, Alfred leaned against a tree, watching his friends play a game. Bernice, Philip, Colin, and a few Executioners who’s faces he could not see were tossing a ball along. Alfred wanted to join, but was made reluctant by politeness, so he stood there, enjoying the warmth of the way and the company of his friends. Suddenly, Philip moved away from the game, walking off.

The ball was tossed to him by Bernice. She smiled at him. “It’s your turn, now, Alfred. It’s all up to you.”

Alfred awoke, his pillow wet from tears.

\---

It had been a frustrating process. Quincy had rushed through the entrance hall, the dining room, the winding parapets, fighting, sprinting, and sneaking his way through. The library had been his death several times, but eventually he reached the point where he could slay the twisted little man before he could even loose a dart. Finally, through effort and practice, Quincy had found his way to the roof of the castle. 

No longer tormented by the past visions, Quincy clutched his axe. Everything had led him to this point, but what could possibly be on the roof of the castle that could explain the bloody event that had taken place here. The snow made it difficult to see more then a few feet ahead, and his teeth clattered. 

He might have tripped on the throne if the snow did not mysteriously cease but a few feet from it, like the placid eye of a storm, and if the weak light did not glint on the crown of the frozen, withered giant that wore it. The giant’s weathered golden robes flapped in the wind along with it’s ragged beard and thin hair, it’s position somewhere between relaxed and unnatural in the stillness of death. 

Quincy could not help but stare in awe at the sight. Was this the king of the forsaken castle, keeping a vigil over his ruined home in death, still crowned and bedazzled with golden rings and amulets. Was this what he was meant to find here at Castle Cainhurst? Alfred had spoken of the last of the Vilebloods, but in such a miserably ruined castle, Quincy was unsure that anyone could live here. Perhaps the last Vileblood, the king on this lonely throne, had decided to succumb to the elements, trapped in his own ghostly castle. 

Quincy worried his lip. It made no sense. The invitation and the phantom coach were baffling enough on their own, but was this entire quest just so he could come face to face with a gargantuan specter of the Castle’s past? 

What would he tell Alfred? Well, he had not been given enough time to think on his friend’s mission, but the whole thing was making him sick. From what he could tell, years ago, the Executioners had slaughtered a castle of nobles, leaving behind a ruined shell inhabited by ghosts and twisted servants. The Bloody Crow was one of the few survivors, and was driven mad by it. The siege had gone horribly wrong when some of the Executioners rebelled against their own master.

_ “Master Logarius became a blessed anchor, guarding us from evil. Tragic, tragic times... That Master Logarius should be abandoned in the accursed domain of the Vilebloods.” _

Quincy bit his lip hard, drawing blood as he remembered what Alfred had told him about Cainhurst. This was no Vileblood King, but Master Logarius himself.

“What in tarnation?” He mumbled, circling the figure. This was the man that Alfred thought so highly of? A rotting, giant skeleton? Surely Alfred would have mentioned that. Quincy began to step foot just behind the chair-and then heard a series of bony cracks. 

It could have been the Castle’s unkempt artichture crumbling. It could have been the ice underfoot. It could have been any number of things-but in truth, it was the seemingly inanimate carcass beginning to stir the second Quincy stepped just beyond the throne. Quincy crouched behind the stone throne, praying that the sounds were not what he thought they were. 

Unseen by Quincy, the giant twitched a frozen hand, blacked and shriveled fingers cracking like twigs with the movement. The action moved like a collapsing set of dominos-from the left hand to the shoulder, which moved spontaneously in a shower of ice and rime. The ancient, frozen head jerked, snow falling from it’s thin, ragged hair and beard. The right hand laboriously reached forward-mummified fingers struggling to move and grasp-towards the ancient staff the frozen giant had been leaning on. With a sickening crunch of neglected bones and tendons, the hand closed around it. Leaning heavily upon the staff, the giant launched forward-head jerked back to the heavens, empty eye sockets staring at the sky’s zenith. The giant groaned and gasped like the grating of a crypt door, like the rasping of a coffin’s hinges. By all rights, the shape-the giant-Master Logarius- should have been dead, but here Quincy was, watching the giant slowly rise and rise from his hiding place behind the frosted seat, sleet crumbling away from his robes and hair. 

Master Logarius had awoken. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Time to delete that Patches preview chapter!  
> Senator Wiggles is still a valued part of this fanfic and a dear friend, they just removed their co-authorship due to advertising their own fic on reddit and not wanting me to be caught in any crossfire if things go wrong there. There was no behind the scenes "My Immortal" style drama, don't worry.   
> Things are going pretty well! I never thought It would be this long (My first outline was only 10 chapters, can you imagine???) but I feel like things are at a very good pace.


End file.
